


One Step At A Time

by Talithax



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Angst, Emotional, Explicit Language, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild S&M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Novel, POV First Person, Sexual Content, Teamwork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-01-25 13:31:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 160,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1650386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ethan stumbles across someone that not only reiterates his feelings of doubt (if not contempt) towards IMF, but which ultimately ends up changing his entire life...  (An alternative take on how the team was formed...)  ** Complete as of 30 July **</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ~ Narrated by Ethan & self-beta'd.
> 
> ~ While I'm posting in 'chapters', please rest assured that the fic -- which comes in at just under 160,000 words -- is actually finished, so... Although I can't guarantee when the updates will be posted, you shouldn't be left hanging for too long!
> 
> ~ Many, many thanks to my friends Chya & ILWB for being both kind enough to read over this for me and for saying such nice things about it.
> 
> ~ There could be an argument for calling this an AU. Ghost Protocol does not exist, but... The characters, and IMF, and the world they're in is, however, essentially the same. It's set 12 months after MI:3
> 
> ~ Although non-consensual (BDSM-themed) sexual abuse is frequently mentioned, it's never detailed. If, however, this can be either a trigger or squick, I recommend turning back now.
> 
> ~ For 9 weeks this fic ate up my life. Since finishing it though I haven't written a thing so I'm kind of hoping that by posting I might somehow regain the desire to... put finger to keyboard again.
> 
> ~ I really hope you enjoy!

===============  
One Step At A Time  
by TalithaX  
===============

 

Montmartre, Paris. One of the few places on earth where not even the darkness of the witching hour can see off the tourist scourge and return the streets to the local inhabitants. At least the school groups, with their masses of hyped up and slightly manic students being overseen by the bare minimum of weary, apathetic – not to mention longing for the moment when they can hit the liquor in the hope of putting the day behind them – teachers, are no longer roaming around. Gone too are both the family groups, recognisable by the way they're constantly having to refer to their worn out paper maps and the fact that at least one of their party is committing the cringe worthy crime of having the declaration of 'I Love Paris' emblazoned over either their t-shirt or over-full shopping bag, and the fully-escorted tour groups of seniors with their never ending list of – loud – complaints about everything from the crowds and the language barrier, to all the way down to how things are invariably better back wherever it is they come from.

The students, thrilled to be out of the classroom and miles away from their parents, aside, none of the tourists I've had the misfortune of encountering everywhere I go since I've been in Paris seem overly happy with their chosen 'holiday experience' and I can't for the life of me work out why they're even bothering. Paris. The City of Love... And Fashion... And Beauty... And Fine Dining... And the Eiffel Tower... And the Louvre...

And... Just, whatever. Seriously.

It's a city. Millions of people, made even more crowded by the hordes of sheep-like tourists who constantly descend on their home like a plague, live in it and, for every old, heritage listed building, there's at least twenty or thirty modern monstrosities spoiling the skyline. It's polluted, the crime rate is staggering, the fashion, beauty and so-called attractions are all over-rated and, for I personally care anyway, I could be anywhere. London. Sydney. Kabul. Damascus. Moscow. Some hick town in the middle of nowhere where cousins marrying is more cause for celebration than indignation. It just doesn't matter. The landscape might be different but, again, for all I genuinely care, that's generally about it.

I don't want to be here, making my way through the crowds of Montmartre at midnight on a Thursday night, but nor, sadly, do I have anywhere that I do actually want to be.

It's just how it is.

I'm here because I have to be, and, quite frankly, the real reason I have to be here is because I don't know what I'd be doing with myself if I wasn't.

The crowds are different from the daytime ones. So too is the feel of the place. All of the tourist stores, with their postcard stands – full of the Mona Lisa, Chat Noir, Eiffel Tower and tacky anthropomorphised frogs in wheelchairs moaning about the loss of their legs – and souvenir tat spilling out on to the streets, are shut up tight and the milling throng are more on the look out for excitement than yet another de rigueur, 'I'm in Paris therefore I simply must take my very own picture of the Sacré Couer from every Goddamn fucking angle', photo op. They're still tourists though, either deluding themselves that they're being brave enough to experience the 'real' Paris or, as they're just wanting to tick it off their bucket list, walking around in search of the Moulin Rouge.

I look at them, as they glance at me before quickly averting their gaze, and all I feel is disconnected. Maybe it's because I grew up on a working farm on the outskirts of small, backwater town and the only holidays I ever had with my family were when we got to go to the county fairs of other, generally not all that far away, small, backwater towns. This isn't a complaint, by the way. I didn't know any better and, being content enough with my lot at the time, look back on my childhood fondly. Britain, Europe, Japan, Australia, hell, even most of America, existed solely in history and geography books and the odd news snippet that filtered through. Then, once I started going to all of these places, instead of seeing the old photographs in the books brought to life, all I really saw was what IMF had trained me to see. How easy a target Big Ben was, how the security at that temple was close to non existent, how quickly a nerve agent could spread through that tunnel. When I travel I do so solely because the mission I'm on at the time dictates it and if I happen to pass a famous landmark on my way it's highly unlikely that I'll even have time to notice it.

Although I rarely have anything to show for it other than either a scar or yet another memory I'd rather not have, thanks to IMF I've been to places that as a child I never even knew existed. I've even successfully broken into the Vatican and, just for something really different, been involved in an unfortunate incident involving both a helicopter and a train in the Channel Tunnel.

What I've never been though is a tourist. I've never travelled simply for pleasure and I don't know if I ever will. Even if I survive long enough to retire and have no one but myself to answer both for and to, why would I want to retrace my steps and go back to places where, regardless of how historical or beautiful they were, all I would ever be able to see was... who died there, or what injury or near miss I sustained there, or just how close it once came to being completely written off the map...

The life of a tourist is not one for me, yet, in a way I envy them. Their enthusiasm and innocence, the way they can look at the famous building they've travelled all that way to see and just admire it for what it is without immediately trying to work out a way to break either into or out of it. I can't really imagine it myself, but I suspect in some cases it must be quite amazing.

Even now, despite being surrounded by tourists all feeling as though they're on some sort of shared adventure in the darkened streets of Montmartre, I'm set apart. They look at me and, instead of nodding a silent greeting, their smile slips, they look away and their steps quicken. In my designer jeans and fitted black shirt, I look, or so I like to think anyway, normal enough. I don't have a machine gun slung over my shoulder and nor am I covered in blood, waving a hand gun around or howling at the moon. I'm just walking along, minding my own business. What they must see when they look at me though is what I suspect is now stamped in bold red ink across my personnel file back at HQ.

DOES NOT PLAY WELL WITH OTHERS.

To IMF it's my attitude, borderline obsessive suspicion that some might even call paranoia, and outright refusal to work with a team. Having had enough of their bullshit and being jerked around by those I should be able to trust with my life, I work alone or I don't work at all. It's not ideal, for either myself or the agency, but until the day comes – if it even comes at all – that I feel as though I can trust again, it's just how it has to be. I want to work, to do what I'm trained for and what I've always believed I'm actually good at, and I want to do what I can to make a difference. I do. There's nothing else I've ever wanted to do and, all the negatives and betrayals aside, it's still the only way I want to make a living. It's just that I'm not enjoying it very much at the moment, that's all.

The tourists giving me a wide berth don't know any of this though and their instinctive desire to have nothing to do with me is solely courtesy of my appearance. It's not that I'm overly big or imposing looking as, being nothing if not average in size, I'm not. No. It's my expression. Cold, dead eyed, all but permanent scowl plastered over my face. Basically, I look like I feel. Indifferent, pissed off, not to be messed with, and possibly even an explosion just waiting to happen.

Part of me wishes, for no other reason than it would mean I was still connected enough with... life... to hopefully one day find my way back, that I cared what these strangers thought of me, but I don't. I just don't. They're nothing to me. They don't know me or what's happened in my life to make me want to close myself off like this and, well, if they want to cross the street to avoid me then so be it. I know that I should, but I just really don't care.

“Stefan!”

A familiar voice calling out the name of my alias du jour breaking through my going nowhere reverie, I glance over my shoulder and nod a silent greeting to Andrei Khavin, arms dealer to the rich, powerful, insane and despotic, and the reason I'm walking the darkened streets of Montmartre and unintentionally freaking out tourists. Khavin, a Brit christened with the truly boring moniker of Peter Smith, is no more Russian than I am but, being nothing if not a consummate actor, he's been successfully living the role of a Moscow-born arms dealer for thirty years now and to him the reality he's made for himself is just that, reality. He's not plain old Peter Smith, born to lower middle class parents in Manchester, he's Andrei Khavin, a Russian self-created millionaire and confidant to those with aspirations of power. In a way I admire his dedication. The back story, the accent and deliberate way of speaking that never ever slips, the confidence in the way he goes about his business – it's all just something else to behold. 

While it would, of course, be something of a stretch to say that I actually liked Khavin, I can't actually find it in myself to hate him either. He just is what he is. A slightly larger than life, in both stature and mannerisms, man who happens to be able to source any weapon in the world that you might happen to have a hankering for. More harmless than most in his line of work – ironically, one of his proudest declarations is that he's never had to kill anyone to make it to where he is, while... simultaneously choosing to ignore the inevitable cost of life associated with just what it is he's dealing in – he's non threatening and pleasant enough to be around and I have, over all of the years we've known each other, actually shared a laugh or two with him. He's also clueless enough not to be aware of the fact that IMF view him pretty much as a pet informant (as in... turn a blind eye to most of his activities in favour of simply using him to monitor the bigger fish in the world of arms dealing) and that the only reason I, Stefan 'No Last Name', ever materialise in time to broker a particular deal for him is because he happens to have somehow managed to get his hands on either something we want ourselves or want to track to its new buyer.

As false relationships go though, it works just fine. I make sure Khavin gets his money and the weapon in question is either secured or, after sending in a team to take out the buyer, safely neutralised. Having dealt with me for years, he thinks I'm a great guy and is always pleased to see me. He even considers that we're friends and, proving that he's actually braver than most of the staff back at HQ who, just like the tourists are tonight, usually avert their gaze and scurry off whenever I'm there, actually made of point of asking, when we first met last week, why it was I was looking so down in the dumps. Surprised, if not taken aback by the fact he'd even noticed – let alone cared enough to ask – I muttered some crap about having been screwed over on a deal I'd been brokering and, after having quickly got things back on track, that was just that.

Needless to say I chose, just as I am now, not to pay any attention to how an arms dealer, a mere acquaintance who doesn't even know my real name, cared enough to ask what was wrong with me when it's not something agents, who I've both known and worked with for years, can find it in themselves to do.

“Andrei,” I mutter as, giving my shoulder an overly-familiar, friendly slap, he gets in step with me and, with an airy gesture of his hand, indicates that I need to turn down the street to my left. “Remind me again just what it is we're doing here surrounded by tourists who no doubt think the Moulin Rouge is the best night life experience Paris has to offer?”

“Because, my friend, we are here to celebrate,” Khavin replies with a bright, happy smile as he gives my shoulder another slap. “The price you got for me exceeded expectations and I want to thank you with a glass or three of the best absinthe in Paris.”

Absinthe. Fabulous. I – as far as he's concerned, anyway – get him a record price for the experimental stealth missile he'd somehow managed to source and he wants to thank me by getting me drunk on absinthe. Still, as there was a time in the not too distant past when he honestly thought the best way to celebrate the successful brokering of a deal was to visit a less than classy strip joint that specialised in... 'jumbo' jello wrestling, it could, I'm sure, be far worse.

Besides, I could actually do with a drink.

Shrugging Khavin's hand off my shoulder, I glance at him and dredge up a hopefully believable enough looking smile “In that case, lead the way.”

“Trust me, you will have never tasted better,” Khavin responds as, to my instant horror, he tilts his head in the direction of a bar called La Fée Verte.

And... Seriously. Just... No. He's got to be fucking kidding me.

French flag in pride of place. Large plate glass window that shows off the bar's 'historically accurate meets steam punk' interior design to passers by. The truly unimaginative name of La Fée Verte, which just about every man and his dog knows is another well known name for absinthe. Masses of drunk people leaning against the window as they wait in vain for the night air to clear their head. A framed print of the Chat fucking Noir hanging above the bar. A small sign on the door declaring that they take Euros, Pounds, American and Australian Dollars and Yen. It's as though the bar's owners consulted a book explaining how to cater to the cashed-up tourist trade and just followed it to the letter.

“The Green Fairy,” I translate, shooting Khavin a look of equal parts disbelief and annoyance. “You're taking me to a fucking... tourist trap?” Coming to an abrupt stop, I fold my arms across my chest and shake my head. “Look, Andrei, I don't care how good the absinthe is as there's no fucking way I'm going in there. For Christ's sake, just look at the place. It... For fuck's sake, it even has the Goddamn French flag hanging above its door and if that doesn't scream of catering to the tourist dollar than I don't know what does!”

“Trust me, my friend, trust me,” he murmurs as, with a wink, he walks straight up to the door and holds it open for me. “Do you honestly think I would bring you here simply to hang out with the... riff-raff?”

Scowling, I drop my arms to my sides and, because the only reason I'm here is – all in the name of IMF – to play nice with Khavin and to keep our mutually useful relationship sweet, force myself to stalk through the door. “You've got thirty seconds to convince me,” I mutter, glaring at a man in a Union Jack T-shirt as he makes the mistake of stumbling into me and the mournful sound of Edith Piaf being played over the bar's sound system assaults my ears. “And, it being your turn to trust me now, Andrei, I'm being generous in giving you that long.”

“Have a little faith,” Khavin declares as he closes his hand around mine and leads me directly through the crowd to the back of the bar. Stopping in front of a green door marked 'Privé' and protected by a keypad, he releases my hand, flashes me a bright smile and taps a code into the pad that immediately sees the door swinging open. “The tourist experience,” he snorts, gesturing me through the door. “Stefan, your lack of... trust... disturbs me, it really does.”

“Maybe it's because I still remember, a little... too... clearly, the size of that woman splashing around in all of that jello like a beached whale,” I retort drily as Khavin shuts the door behind us and a blandly attractive, blank faced man in a tuxedo materialises silently in front of us. Unlike the public front of La Fée Verte, the surprisingly long corridor we're now in is both quiet and tastefully, if not classically decorated. Old fashioned, albeit powered by electricity as opposed to oil, glass lamps line the beige walls and bathe everything, from the plush burgundy carpet under our feet to the dark, highly polished wooden doors leading off them, in a warm, welcoming glow. 

Although it's safe to say that I don't actually know just where it is I've suddenly found myself, previous experiences of such – hidden, privileged and most likely bound to be slightly perverse – establishments tells me that it's just a private club and that I have nothing to worry about. We'll drink, and be able to talk in peace and quiet, and that's where it'll end. If anything, compared to the hustle and bustle of La Fée Verte, this... 'Gentleman's Club' looks like a complete and utter Godsend. 

“You are right, that too was a good night,” Khavin beams as, both oblivious to my sarcasm and because it's just what he does, he once again claps his hand down on my shoulder. “Now...” Turning to the man, he slips a one hundred euro note into the pocket of his black tuxedo jacket. “Edmond! It is, as always, good to see you again.”

“Monsieur Khavin,” Edmond intones in a quiet voice completely devoid of so much as a hint of emotion as he gives a half bow. “How may I be of assistance to you this evening?”

“My friend and I are here to drink, nothing more,” Khavin replies somewhat, to my ears at any rate, cryptically.

“Absinthe?”

“Of course.”

Nodding, Edmond gives another bow and, without having once glanced in my direction, turns around and begins to walk along the corridor. “Please. If you will follow me.”

“Told you to trust me,” Khavin murmurs as, our footsteps making no sound on the carpet, we follow Edmond along the corridor until he finally opens a door and, with a deeper bow this time, gestures us inside.

“Monsieur Khavin. If there is anything else I can...”

“We are good for now, Edmond,” Khavin interrupts as, looking increasingly excited at the prospect of getting to show me his... 'private' place, he smiles and, linking his elbow around mine, pulls me into the room with him. “Voilá!” he exclaims loud enough that the three men seated at the table in the room's far corner immediately jerk their heads up to glower at him. “Ooops!” Laughing, he flashes an apologetic smile at the dark suited, serious looking men before leading me over to the table furthest away from them and releasing my elbow so that I can take a seat. “How not to make an entrance, no?”

“That's one way of looking at it.” Settling myself in the comfortable, green leather club chair, I stretch my legs out under the round, antique table and slowly look around the room. Effortlessly combining both the elegant décor of the corridor and the fashionable steam punk style of the La Fée Verte, it looks just how I imagine an upmarket absinthe den would have looked back in the liquor's heyday. The carpet and lighting is the same as in the corridor, while the four sets of a round table surrounded by three green leather club chairs are both identical and clearly antique. A bar, wooden and decorated in stained glass scenes reminiscent of the French romantic art of the late nineteenth century, takes up most of the far wall and the glasses that line the shelves above the bottles of alcohol at the back of it are all of the period too. In fact, if you took the modern dress of the patrons and the iPad lying on top of the table belonging to the other men out of the equation, the only thing spoiling the room from looking like a window back into history is the woman behind the bar. With her far too red to be natural hair spilling down over her exquisitely made up face from her messy, tousled bun and her black leather corset that owes far more to the world of BDSM than it does to the fashion of the times, she detracts as much from the scene as she leads me to believe that, just like similar clubs all over the world, there's far more to this one than meets the eye of a casual observer.

Catching the woman's eye, Khavin's nods and holds up two fingers. “Just you wait, my friend. I give you my word that never will you have tasted anything as good as this before.”

“I'm sure, so long as it's not the watered down crap they're no doubt pouring for the tourists, it'll be fine,” I mutter, relaxing back in my chair as a large, black leather bound folder on the table catches my eye. Although expecting it to be nothing more than a wine list, I lean forward and, for no real reason than I want to make as little small talk with Khavin as I can possibly get away with, pick it up.

“Be careful of that folder,” Khavin's murmurs with a knowing smile as he reaches across the table and taps his finger against the cover. “The temptations contained within... They take a strong man not to succumb.”

“Yeah. Well. We'll see about that.” Settling the folder on my lap, I flip open the cover and, just as Khavin's response a second ago didn't persuade me to think anything to the contrary, see no reason to assume that the contents are going to be anything other than a wine list. Sure, a very expensive, if the gold embossed statement of 'Price on Application' emblazoned in an elaborate font on the matt black front page is anything to go by, wine list, but nonetheless still just a wine list. Not even, printed in a far plainer and smaller font in the bottom right hand corner of the cage, the instruction of 'Please quote number upon application' gives me cause to consider that I have something other than a wine list in my hands.

It's not a wine list though.

Of course it's not.

It's a photographic catalogue of – and, no, I can't think of any other way to put it – whores.

An exquisite, portfolio-worthy catalogue of men and women offering themselves to anyone willing to pay their asking price.

Now, while I might be far from naïve and already half suspected that Khavin's club had a lot more going for it than just both privacy and apparently great absinthe, I've still never seen anything quite as professionally put together as this before and don't even want to think about how much it would cost if I wanted to avail myself to one of their... charms. I mean, I don't. Of course I don't. But that, really, is beside the point. They're on offer, everything about the establishment positively screams of high stakes, and on the strength of the catalogue alone I can't help but vaguely wonder – solely out of idle curiosity – if perhaps they're worth it.

They certainly, on a whole, look like a selection of carefully chosen... specimens, and the attention to detail taken with their photographs is honestly second to none. All are in black and white, and each double page of the folder is devoted to a single whore. On the left there's a close up of their face, while on the right there's a naked body shot. Some are artistic, even, take the one of the woman draped on her back over a carousel horse for example, pretentiously so, while others are more suggestive or pornographic in nature. Printed, discreetly and so as not to detract from the photograph, on the top left hand corner of the left page is their number and it's an uncomfortable feeling knowing that all I'd have to do to... order... one is quote their number to the woman behind the bar.

To each their own and all that, and I know it's not my place to comment on either the men or women who are willing to sell themselves like this or even those prepared to pay their price, but...

Let's just say it's not really my thing and leave it at that.

Although the catalogue isn't doing anything for me, I mentally tune out all of the nudity on display and continue to flick through it in preference to talking to Khavin. Noticing, as I pass the halfway mark of the folder, that the images are beginning to take on more of a S&M themed slant, I'm about to slam it shut and pass comment in respect to possibly dying of thirst before our drinks arrive in the hope of diverting Khavin's from asking me what I happen to think of its contents when I see a photograph that instantly draws my attention.

The man in the centre of the photo is nothing overly special. He's white, more slim than muscular and with just enough definition for there to be a hint of a six-pack, his flaccid cock is average, and... Compared to the rest of the men I've seen in the catalogue, most of whom have far more attractive bodies and bigger cocks, he's nothing to write home about at all. His photo though... I tell myself that the reason I can't move on to the next page is because of the composition of the photograph. Posed, kneeling on the dirty concrete floor of an abandoned warehouse, and with leather cuffs encircling his wrists, his arms are stretched out in the classic crucified position and held in place by heavy chains attached to something out of shot. His head lowered to the point of his chin resting against the base of his neck, you can't clearly see his face and, again, I just can't put my finger on why it is I feel so drawn to the photograph. The photographer obviously possessing considerable skills, the lighting is such that the man's pale body is stark against the graffitied, litter strewn and crumbling warehouse, and...

He just looks vulnerable.

Unlike all the other whores represented in the folder, this one doesn't look as though he's wanting to have his photo taken and, for the first time since entering the club I start to feel a little uneasy. 

I shouldn't be staring at him like this. It's not as though I honestly have any interest in requesting the services of anyone contained in the folder and, because of this, I have no right to be gazing at their naked bodies as though they were little more than objects who solely exist for the pleasure of others.

Hiding my discomfort behind a small – 'bored, now' – shrug, I sit up straight and am about to flip the folder closed when, out of nowhere, a small voice in my head tells me that, having so carefully inspected his naked body, I... owe... it to him to look at his face. It's... irrational, not to mention completely fucking stupid and pointless, but for some reason I feel as though I just have to do it, that I won't be able to live with myself if I don't so much as glance at the photograph on the other page.

So... Disliking myself enough as it without adding... gutless pervert... to my ever growing list of things I have to live with, I look over at the second page, and...

What I see shocks me even more than my interest in the first photo did.

The photograph only takes up the middle third of the page and, just like the picture taken in the warehouse, it's a work of art. Nestled between jet black strips at the top and bottom of the page, the black and white image quite literally takes my breath away. Wearing a black leather gag or a half face mask from just below his nose, the focus of the photograph is the man's eyes, and...

Fuck!

I think I've seen them before. Not... in a sense of instant or complete recognition, but... They just look vaguely familiar somehow.

Like the rest of him, there's nothing especially spectacular or unique about his eyes, yet at the same time there's still something both beautiful and compelling about them. Almond shaped and rimmed in black lashes, I don't know what colour they are because of the photo being in black and white, and...

Shit.

I've seen them before. I'm sure of it. I...

I just don't know where.

Or in what context.

Have we actually met? Or do I only think I know him because I saw him, or someone who looks like him, once pass me in the street?

And...

Fuck. Just what is it to do with me anyway? If this is how he – whoever the fuck he is – chooses to make his money then that's entirely his look out and has nothing whatsoever to do with me.

It's just...

… I've seen him somewhere. Haven't I? There's something about his eyes that's ringing dim and distant bells with me and, not liking question marks hanging over my head, I should...

No.

Forget it.

I can't.

Unable to take feeling as though the man is gazing directly at me, I slam the folder shut and shove it back on to the table. “The models,” I murmur in a deliberately neutral voice as Khavin looks over at me with that knowing smirk still plastered firmly over his face, “where does the club get them from?”

“From the streets? By word of mouth? Perhaps they advertise?” Indicating his lack of interest in my question with a shrug, Khavin retrieves the folder and begins to casually flip through the pages until he comes to the photographs of the man I'd just been staring at. “This one, he calls to you, no? If you would like I could enquire as to his availability tonight, yes? He could be my gift to you.”

“What? God... No. Thanks, Andrei, but I've always made it my own personal mission to never have to pay for that which I have no trouble getting for free,” I mutter, glossing over his... generous, not to mention horrifying... offer with a brusque display of innuendo as, with absolutely perfect timing, the woman from the bar finally arrives at the table with our drinks. “Now... As this is why I accepted your invitation tonight, let us talk and drink!”

It's funny, if not even just a bit on the ironic side, but compared to the alternative of fixating on whether or not I've ever seen the man in the photographs before, I find that I suddenly want to talk to Khavin.

I mean...

Focus not on the vague and quite possibly delusional, but on both the here and now and what's real, right?

It's what I do.

What I... have... to do.

~*~*~*~

Reluctantly accepting that sleep, unless I want to succumb to taking a sleeping pill, is going to continue to elude me for the foreseeable future, I open my eyes and, throwing back the duvet, sit up. Turning on the bedside lamp, I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress and wearily rub my hands over my face. The digital readout on the clock radio by the lamp reads that it's just gone half past four in the morning and this in turn tells me that, as impatient as ever, I've only been trying to fall asleep for the past thirty minutes.

My time with Khavin having pretty much gone to expectations – we drank our drinks once they arrived and, his garrulousness going to prove to be his down fall one day, he cheerfully brought me up to speed with his plans for the future and who just happened to be after what weapon – I left the closeted confines of his secret-club-slash-high-class-brothel around half past three and made it back to my hotel suite just before four. As nights spent with arms dealers go, I've spent far worse. Hell, as I wasn't joking about being scarred for life by the humongous woman in the small wading pool full of Jello, I've had worse nights with Khavin himself before. Once I put the folder down and brushed off his... kind... offer of hiring a whore for me, we were just Andrei and Stefan, two men playing both at a role and at being friends. The much lauded absinthe was, just like the company, neither here nor there and, really, what's done is done. My night at La Fée Verte, just like my mission to broker Khavin's sale of the stealth missile, is now history. In sixteen or so hours time I'll be back in D.C. and, as memories go, what went down tonight won't even be one worth keeping.

The thing is though, I just can't get that man from the folder out of my damn head. I close my eyes in the hope of going to sleep and... I see him. That photograph of his eyes haunts me and I know that I'm not going to be able to rest until I'm able to work out just why it is he seems so familiar to me. It's not that I'm transfixed by him, or even that I harbour something of a hard-on for him. As I'm not, and I don't. There were, after all, far better looking men in the folder to want to jerk off to than him. One in particularly looked like the sort of specimen the Calvin Klein advertising agency would be desperate to get their hands on to model their underpants and, if you put the pair of them side by side, Mr CK and my guy, the one I can't get out of head, you'd be lucky to spare mine so much as a second glance.

But...

I know him.

Or at the very least he reminds me of someone.

It's just that I don't know who, and it's slowly sending me fucking crazy.

All I want is to have that light bulb illuminating moment where I go, 'A-ha! Now I know who he reminds me of,' and, that'll be it, my interest in the man will be over. I pride myself, in my line of work it kind of comes with the territory if I want to survive, in my ability to both recognise faces and put names to them. This time though? Nothing. I can't shake the fact that there's something familiar about his eyes, but that's it.

Rubbing my hands over my face again, I stand up and, after grabbing a piece of the suite's complimentary paper from the stationery set by the television, take a seat at the table in front of the window. Picking up a pen that was already lying on the table, I quickly sketch, from memory, the man's eyes on to the paper and, once I'm happy with the image I place in down flat in front of me and, all the time willing myself to remember, just gaze at it.

I should be able to do this.

I... have... to be able to do this.

What good am I in the field if I can't put names to faces? It doesn't matter that in this instance my determination to get to the bottom of who the man reminds me of is completely irrelevant and of no purpose in respect to either the mission or IMF at all, as... Simply put, it's important to me. The man looks like someone I think I either know or... should... know, and I have to be able to work out who.

Sighing, I lean back in my chair and, hoping that my much longed for moment of clarity comes not from staring at my sketch but from staring at the great expanse of white that is the ceiling, tilt my head back. My memory is good and this shouldn't be as difficult as it's proving to be. Mind you, as good as my memory is, right now I wish that it was better. In fact, I wish it was as good as the agent's who, if the anecdote I heard being told about him in the cafeteria was correct, could tell who the person was just from the most rudimentary of sketches. Whoever it was, if he'd ever met them or even happened to just see a picture of them on a report he was reading, he'd not only be able to name them within seconds but he'd also know enough about them to elaborate on who they were or why they might be of interest.

I remember thinking at the time, as the two tech experts gossiped at the table behind me, how useful the man would have been to have around and how, despite never having met him myself, sorry I was that...

He was dead.

The man, and if my troublesome memory serves me correctly in this regard, who was not only a field agent but also an analyst of some regard and note, had been murdered by a car bomb in Germany, and...

His name was William Brandt.

I'd never met him, never even heard of him before the news of his death sent shock waves through HQ, yet, out of curiosity I looked up his file, and...

Fuck.

My mind surely knowing how to operate in strange ways, I think I now know what it is about the man's eyes that make them so vaguely familiar to me.

And that's that they remind me of an agent's I'd never even met. 

I remember looking at the photo on Brandt's personnel file and wondering, as I admired, even in the uninspired mug shot used by IMF for our identification cards and the like, his expressive blue eyes and thought to myself how attractive he'd been, just why it was our paths had never crossed. Oddly, I even felt momentarily saddened by his death. He'd just been doing his job and, going on the lengthy list of his commendations and extensive skill set, IMF was really going to feel his loss. Agent. Analyst. Eidetic memory. Crack shot. Respected.

Dead.

Sighing again, I lean forward and, pulling my laptop towards me, open up the screen and turn it on. Once it's finished booting up, I log into the secure IMF website and immediately open up the – token gesture at best – 'In Memoriam' page and scroll down the alphabetical listing of agents lost in the line of work until I come across the link for Brandt. Clicking it open, the photo I remember from his personnel file loads on the top quarter of the screen and, as I gaze it, I know that I'm right, that the reason the man in the folder looked familiar is because he reminds me of a dead agent. This photo is in colour, and Brandt's eyes look a lot less haunted than the whore's, but the similarities are still there and I know that my pointless quest has now come to a somewhat sad end.

Shutting the laptop's screen without bothering to turn it off, I screw up my sketch and, standing up, throw it forcefully into the nearby bin. Instead of feeling a sense of satisfaction at having worked out who the whore at La Fée Verte reminded me of, I just feel... empty. One I never met, and the other I'll never meet, and... Just. Whatever. I achieved what I wanted to and, knowing that I have to take my successes where I can get them, I just need to put it behind me and go back to bed in hope of finally getting some sleep.

That, and to convince myself that none of it matters anyway.

~*~*~*~


	2. Chapter 2

~*~*~*~

Not liking the direction my thoughts are taking me in, I push the laptop back along the table and, with a groan, slump back in my seat.

Just...

Why?

At the risk of sounding plaintive, if not even just a tad petulant...

Why?

Why did my – treacherous and paranoid – mind have to take me there?

Things had been going so well, too.

After managing three hours of uninterrupted sleep I'd woken refreshed and gone for a fifteen mile run around the streets of Paris. While going so far as to say I was... happy... would be a little bit of a stretch, I'd been pleased at the thought of only having to waste a few more hours in the place before driving to Charles De Gaulle and catching my flight back to the States and, after my run, had actually lingered over breakfast in the hotel's café. The thought of returning to D.C. might not hold any great thrall, but the mission's over now and I just want to put Paris behind me and be on the move again. I did what I was sent here for, the report's already been written up and forwarded to the Secretary, and now it's very much time for a change. New mission, new location, new challenge. It's what – gives me purpose – keeps me going and I always feel as though I'm in danger of stagnating if I have to stay too long in one place.

Breakfast was good. The shower I had upon returning to my suite was good. Packing, not that I have that much stuff anyway, was easy. My mood, not marred by my – obsessive compulsive – curiosity about the man in the folder at Khavin's club, was good.

Things, they were just moving along smoothly and, yes, they were for a pleasant change, just... good.

Until, that is, I made the mistake of opening up the laptop screen. Of particular annoyance is the fact that I didn't even have to. Confident that I had my departure time memorised, the only reason I even turned to the laptop for confirmation was to kill a little time before checking out and heading off to the airport. I could have, seeing as it too was waiting to be packed away in my carry-on luggage, turned on the iPad and checked my itinerary on that. But, no. I sat my ass down in the chair at the table, blithely flipped open my laptop and, because I hadn't bothered to turn it off before going back to bed, promptly found myself once again gazing at the photo of the dead agent, William Brandt.

And, instead of using my fucking brains and just closing the page down before going in to my email, I just sat there.

Staring at him. Thinking about the whore back at the club. Trying to convince myself that... so what if I could still see a marked similarity around the eyes? Wondering. Telling myself not to be so Goddamn – paranoid – stupid. Hating myself, feeling sick to the stomach, even, for simply allowing the thought to so much as cross my mind. Worrying.

And, that's what I'm still doing.

I don't want to... It's stupid... A flight of – sick and twisted – fantasy... I'm wasting my time... I need to be on my way... Irrational... Delusional...

But...

What if...?

It doesn't bear thinking about, and God knows I wish I wasn't thinking it, but... I am. The seed has been planted now and, regardless of where it may end up leading me, I have to follow it through until I have a definite answer. Either way. I'm either right or I'm wrong. Not knowing Brandt, I have no vested interest in the outcome and will be content enough with, knowing that I'd taken the time to at least look into it, whatever the outcome turns out to be. As he was a fellow agent though, I owe it to him to not just brush this ludicrous thought from my mind and to do what I can to follow through with it.

Just...

What if the photos of the man in the folder at the club and the IMF agent, William Brandt, are actually one and the same?

The thought's ludicrous, illogical, and certainly far-fetched. The stuff of either Hollywood movie – or day time soap – scripts or the fervent imagination of a twisted author.

'An IMF agent, thought long dead, is discovered alive and held captive by a private, exclusive brothel. His death faked by an unknown body being found in what remained of his hire car after it had been ripped apart by a bomb and his dental records replaced by a local pathologist in need of extra cash because of his gambling debt, the questions that needs to be asked are... 

Was he betrayed by someone he trusted?

IMF having an unfortunate history when it comes to keeping their staff on the straight and narrow, has yet another agent fallen prey to the selfish greed of someone from within his inner circle?'

It's a horrible, sickening thought, and I actually wish that it had never popped into my mind. Yet, sadly, it's not actually without precedence. Something like twenty years ago now an agent, Michael Parsons his name was, was listed as having died during a mission in Switzerland. His body had been retrieved, an autopsy performed, and no one thought any more of it until, three years later, his body popped up... again. Gaunt, and showing clear signs of lengthy, drawn out torture, it was found by the side of a road in Brazil, once again confirmed – beyond all doubt this time, as, unlike during the first autopsy, they referred to DNA samples – that the body was Parsons', and... that he'd only been dead for four days. Which of course meant, to everyone's revolted realisation, that he hadn't died three years earlier, that the body they'd buried with much fanfare and splendour, wasn't actually his at all, and...

… That for three years he'd been kept alive in hellish circumstances without anyone at IMF ever knowing.

As 'Urban Myths' – scare the recruits silly because, hey, it's hilarious to watch their expressions as they begin to doubt their career choice – go, I'd thought that it was just the work of a creative mind until I'd accessed Parsons' records myself and saw, to my shock, that it was true. While they'd never caught the culprit, mole, or organisation behind the elaborate 'fake and switch', IMF really had believed their agent was dead and buried when, in fact, he was alive and suffering.

So, yes, it's happened before. For reasons unknown someone fakes an agent's death and then proceeds to do... horrible... things to him until the inevitable finally happens and he passes away for real. In Parsons' case the general consensus, even though the case is still open to this very day, is that they must have kept him alive and tortured him in the hope of getting valuable information out of him.

If I'm right – and, not yet being completely off with the (green) fairies, I think, percentage wise here, that my chances are slim to non existent – though about Brandt's death being faked, why he'd be being... whored... out at a brothel...

Well. It just doesn't make any sense. 

Unless, I suppose, it was to teach him a lesson? Or... he was just given to them from another unknown source? As a gift? A payment of a debt? Cruel and unusual punishment?

Mind you, none of my ill formed, random, and flighty thoughts are making much sense to me at the moment.

If, and I don't honestly think that it can be, it is Brandt, how'd he get there? Is there yet another leak inside IMF? Why would anyone do that to him? 

All I know for certain is that I'm not leaving Paris until I find out, again, one way or another, if the man in the folder is an – allegedly deceased – IMF agent. Whatever it takes. I don't care. I don't care if it's ultimately proven that I've just wasted my time as, to me, it'll still be worth it and I'll be able to live with myself knowing that I didn't just turn a blind eye to the possibility and investigated it to the best of my ability. For both Brandt and agents everywhere. If there's so much as the slightest hint of a chance that there's another corrupt mother fucker slithering around the ranks of IMF then I will not rest until I've flushed them out and made them pay for their betrayal. 

The most popular rumour, the one that even manages to beat the one about no-one else actually being willing to work with me because I'm such a crabby, arrogant prick, going around HQ is that the reason behind my current lone wolf routine is because my marriage failed. Make that, failed spectacularly. From taking my vows to having them annulled within the month. To those that have nothing better to do with their time it was the sort of fodder that gossip dreams are made of – 'Thinks he's so great but can't even keep a wife! No wonder he's trying to keep a low profile. The poor bastard must have had his heart broken.'

They're wrong though. Not even close to being right. I'm sorry that my marriage to Julia failed. Of course I am. I'd thought naively, selfishly and, as it happens, incorrectly that I could both have my cake and eat it too. It was... an experiment that went wrong, a pipe dream that I never should have even entertained, let alone put into action. I thought, because it was what I wanted, that I could keep working at IMF – even as a trainer it was still for the organisation that I loved and had given so much for – while keeping it completely separate from both Julia and my misguided attempt to live the idyllic – complete with picket fence – suburban life. I wanted the best of both worlds and, as I should have known, I couldn't have it. They, the suburban dream and the IMF reality, entwined as anyone with half a brain would have known they would, and my wife of a few short days very nearly lost her life. Not, oddly enough, taking either her near death experience or exhilarating introduction to my world all that well, Julia gave me an ultimatum – her, or IMF.

And...

I chose IMF. I didn't even hesitate or take time to think over my decision. She'd almost died because of me and, by virtue of simply remaining in my life, she was never going to be truly safe again. To my enemies, and it's not as though I don't have my fair share scattered across the globe, it wouldn't have mattered that I'd retired and, I don't know, taken up a job as a mail man or whatever, as my links to IMF would always be there. Wherever we went, whatever I did, there'd always be a chance of being recognised as – 'The' – Ethan Hunt and, because of this, Julia too would always have been at risk. And, simply put, I couldn't do it to her. I couldn't keep her linked to my world and its inherent threat of danger and had to let her go.

I'd tried. She'd believed. And it hadn't worked.

By divorcing and setting her up with both a new identity and a position as a trauma specialist in Seattle, I'd done what I could to undo the damage I'd caused her and, there not really being any other option open to us, we simply set about getting on with our lives.

I loved her, at the start, and I honestly thought that I'd wanted to play at living the suburban dream, but I don't miss her and my biggest regret is having momentarily brought my world into hers.

Julia was an innocent citizen who never should have been placed in danger by IMF. I might have made the mistake of marrying her, but it wasn't me who brought Davian to her doorstep.

No. That was Musgrave. John Musgrave. A fellow IMF agent who I'd always considered to be a friend and who was, in fact, a low life, scum sucking mole.

And it's because of him – with an old, lingering side serving of Jim Phelps' money grabbing, back-stabbing antics of quite a few years back now – and not my failed marriage that's damaged my trust in my employer and made me want to work on my own. Musgrave, solely for his own gain, threatened the life of an innocent woman and betrayed not only IMF but also his own country as well. He cast a dark, offensive stain over the agency I've devoted my career to, and I hate it.

I fucking hate it.

Musgrave, like Phelps before him, put their own greed ahead of both the agency and the agents they too once promised to devote their career to, and I just absolutely hate it. I hate the damage they've caused. I hate knowing that their actions have both ruined and... taken... lives, and I fucking despise feeling as though I now can't trust anyone, that, seeing as it's happened before, for all I know they're actually actively working against the cause while pretending to be working with me.

I'm... battled scarred. Not physically, but mentally, and not by an underground organisation, but by the very agency I work for.

I refuse, however, to let it beat me. My goal, the very reason I do what I do, has always been for justice, and if I have to turn my attention to inside the IMF to achieve this then, so be it, that's what I'll do.

And that is why I'm so worked up by my hare-brained thought that an agent could still be both alive and being held captive. If there's any chance that it's true then there's an equally as good chance that his downfall was assisted by someone on the inside, and, it doesn't even matter that I don't know the man, as, to me, it's personal. 

Maybe I truly am paranoid, and when I'm proven wrong I may even be embarrassed by the way I leapt so enthusiastically to the wrong conclusion, but I'm still going to travel down that path and I'm going to follow it through to the end.

I have to.

Biting back a sigh, I sit up a little straighter, run my fingers through my hair and, instead of – doing what I should be doing – packing my laptop into its case and heading down to the car, pull my cell phone out of my pocket. Turning it on, I swiftly enter my PIN and, mentally crossing my fingers that he answers, quickly dial Khavin's number. To my relief he answers on the fourth ring and, no doubt courtesy of having my contact details saved in his phone, greets me with his usual, over-eager enthusiasm.

“Stefan, my friend!” he exclaims. “I did not think I would hear from you so soon after our... night on the town.”

“Andrei,” I state, forcing the sound of a smile into my voice as I only just control the urge to drum the fingers of my free hand down on the table top. “I don't want to bother you, only...”

“Bother me? No, no! You could never bother me, my friend. Please. If there is anything that I can do for you then you must speak up.”

“The club you took me to last night...”

“La Fée Verte, yes?”

“Well... The one behind the closed door.”

Khavin laughs. “La Fée Noir?”

“If that's what it's called, then, yes,” I reply, tilting my head back and rolling my eyes. The brothel masquerading as a gentlemen's club is called The Black Fairy. Just... How fucking imaginative.

“I knew you would like it.”

“It was... certainly something.”

“The club itself took your fancy, or perhaps, if I may be so bold as to inquire, it was the contents of a certain folder?”

“The absinthe, as you'd promised, was of exquisite quality, and both the ambiance and the company pleasing, but, yes, I have to confess that you are indeed right and my dominate memory of the night happens to be that of the folder.”

“You would like to go back?” Khavin chuckles, sounding pleased at my – over-the-top – confession. “I am shortly to leave Paris to return to Moscow, however...”

“Actually,” I interrupt, hiding my relief at Khavin's imminent departure behind what I hope sounds like a sigh of disappointment, “what I was really wanting to ask you was whether the club had a website? I would, as I'm sure you can appreciate, like to peruse those that they have on offer at my leisure.”

“Of course, of course! I understand perfectly, my friend. One can not be rushed into such an important decision when there are so many glorious creatures on offer.”

“So...?” I prompt, knowing that it wouldn't do to sound too desperate to get my answer but, at the same time, wishing he'd just get to the damn point already. “They have a website, yes?”

“They have a website, yes,” he confirms. “It is only accessible through a direct link, however, and like the door that takes you from... Verte... into... Noir, you will need a password in order to gain entry.”

“Oh.” Oh, as in... Fuck. Wanting to do this on my own, hearing that the website is password protected is... not... what I wanted to hear. My hacking skills are basic at best and, while, yes, I do have a tech expert back at HQ that I could call on to hack it for me, I want to keep him out of it for as long as possible. Not only is this investigation my – self-imposed – cross to bear, but as I'm wary of there being someone in IMF who has actually had a hand in it, I have to play my cards close to my chest. 

“Cheer up, my friend,” Khavin retorts, slapping, I suspect by the sound of it, his thigh in merriment as he paints himself in the role of coming to my aid and, given that it's basically paying for sex that we're talking about here, saving me from having to get my climax from my right hand. “I have both access to the website and invite codes that will generate a password for you. I will, as there is nothing I would not do for you, my friend, send them to you in an email, yes?”

“That would be... fantastic, Andrei, it really would,” I reply with a – feigned – heartfelt sigh of relief. “I owe you one, I really do.”

“Speak nothing of it. You are my friend and you are horny. If I could not assist in... alleviating... your need, how could I possibly call myself your friend?”

“Uh... Well. Thanks. I mean it.”

“Speak no more of it. I will email you that which you require immediately after hanging up.”

Although – good boy that he is – it's exactly what I want Khavin to do, I nonetheless force a dry laugh out of my mouth. “Do I really sound... that... desperate?”

“Not at all. It is just that the website holds far more photographs than the folder and, as your choice is not one to be taken lightly, I believe you will need as much time as possible to make your decision.”

“In that case...” I force myself to laugh again. “Perhaps I should simply end the call and await the arrival of your email.”

“I will do so immediately. I give you my word.”

“Thanks for this, Andrei. I definitely owe you one.”

“Tell me, in detail, of course, of your encounter when next we meet and I will consider the debt paid.”

“Of course,” I reply, wrinkling my nose at the thought of sitting down with Khavin and having to share tales of my sexual exploits with him. “Until we meet again, then.”

“Until we meet again, my friend,” Khavin replies with yet another chuckle as he ends the call.

Having successfully gotten 'step one' of my hurriedly thought up plan of action out of the way, I drop the phone down on to the table and, rubbing my fingers against my temples, hope he lives up to his promise by emailing the link to the website of La Fée Noir within the next few minutes. While time isn't particularly of the essence, I still want to get this over and done with as soon as possible. Missing my flight and momentarily going AWOL in the eyes of IMF doesn't bother me, but if there really is any chance of that man actually being Brandt I know that I have to get him out of there... today. Not because I think the club would have the slightest clue that anyone was questioning his... right to belong to them, but because he... doesn't... belong there. Having been – dead – captive for six months already, it's not as though another day would kill him or put him at any additional risk, but...

If they're using him for what I think they are...

… As with so many things in regards to this sorry mess, it just doesn't bear thinking about.

An unread message icon popping up on the screen of my iPad saving me from travelling down the dark and dingy path of thinking about just what exactly the club has no qualms in putting its... whores... through, I grab the tablet, enter my PIN, and open up my email account. Khavin having lived up to his word, the only unread message on the screen is from him and, clicking it open, I see both a link the club's website and an invite code. Highlighting the code, I copy it on to the clipboard before tapping on the hyper-link that will both take me to the site and effectively put 'step two' into action. The page that opens in Safari is – surprise, surprise – plain black with a thin grey box directly in the centre of it. Pasting my code into the box, I hit enter and the blackness dissolves to reveal a matt grey page with both another link and different code. Repeating my 'copy and paste' action with the code, I once again hit enter and, when a box opens on the screen asking if I'd like to save the password for this page, I click 'yes' and watch as, at long last, I gain entrance to the website equivalent of the black leather folder I had in my hands less than twelve hours ago.

Obviously designed by the same artistic team who had put the folder together, the entire site is in black and white and, despite being little more than a catalogue for sex that you have to pay for, it oozes of both good taste and class. Swiping my finger across the link that will take me to the... male... section of the site, I quickly glance over the headings that are on offer – Vanilla, Fantasy, Ethnic, Master, Slave – before, as a sigh slips past my lips, selecting the one labelled 'Slave'. From my reading of how the folder was laid out last night, not to mention from the style of the man's photos, I suspect this is as good a place to start to look for him as any and, bringing the tablet closer so that I don't have to squint, quickly scan the thumbnails that have filled the screen in the hope of seeing an image that I recognise.

Spotting, right down the bottom of the screen, the photograph of the man in the warehouse, I tap my finger on it to open up his page and watch in dismay as photo after photo appears before my eyes. Close-ups of certain parts of his body not being of any use to me, I pay most of the images scant attention until, finally, one pops up that actually presents him as... the full package... and not just a collection of a body parts. Needing to see his face so that I can compare it to the picture that's still gazing back at me from the laptop's screen, I enlarge the photograph of him kneeling naked on the floor of what looks to be the world's most stereotyped S&M dungeon until his head fills half of the tablet's screen and hold it up next to the computer.

And...

While I may well be paranoid, what I'm not is imagining things. Granted, there's still no guarantee that the... whore... really is William Brandt, but looking at their images side by side there's no denying that their likeness is uncanny. Brandt's hair, while still short, is longer than the other man's closely cropped style, and he's also, for the want of a better way of putting it, far healthier, and not so gaunt looking. The eyes are definitely the same though. As are the lips. They look so similar that they could, assuming, that is, one was in good health and the other was suffering from an illness, even be twins.

Which means...

Fuck!

I didn't want to be right. I wanted to look at the photos and, not seeing the likeness I'd convinced myself of there being earlier this morning, laugh at my fanciful, delusional imagination.

I...

I didn't want it to be looking increasingly like it could really be true.

This man...

The one in the black and white image filling the screen of my iPad, he's not looking directly at the camera and is instead looking to his left at either someone or something just outside of the photographer's viewfinder. And the look in his eyes is one of obvious apprehension. Not defiance or resignation, but fear. He's trapped, has no control over what's about to be done to his body, and he's afraid.

And it's not fucking right.

If it is Brandt, he was just doing his job and IMF should have protected him, not... sold him out!

Dropping the iPad onto the table, I slam the laptop screen shut and, needing to calm down before I move onto 'step three', push my chair back and stand up. Breathing deeply, I step around my suitcase and walk over to the fridge, Opening the door, I cast a longing glance at the small collection of European beers lined up on the top shelf and grab a bottle of water. Twisting the lid off, I tap the door shut with my foot and, as I take a long drink of the refreshingly cold water, walk back over to the table. Returning the lid to the bottle, I place it down next to the tablet before picking my phone up and carrying it over to the window.

Step three.

Here goes nothing.

Scrolling through my list of contacts until I find the one I'm looking for, I hit dial and, just as it was when I called Khavin, my call is answered on the fourth ring.

“Eth...”

“Uh! What have I told you before about using my name when I call this number?”

“Oh! Shit. Sorry, Eth... Uh... I'll do better next time, I promise.”

“I hate to say this, Benji, but I'll believe it when I hear it,” I reply as, happier to hear his familiar voice than I ever would have expected to be, I lean my back against the wall. “Just... Be careful, yeah? I gave you this phone so that we could talk in private, not so that anyone within earshot will know who it is you're talking to anyway.”

Benji Dunn. IMF tech expert, absolutely brilliant at what he does and, perhaps most importantly, hasn't been in the job long enough to become jaded by it. I trust him as much as I'm currently capable of trusting anyone, and it's solely because of this – well, that, and the fact that Luther was already deep undercover on a year long assignment in Johannesburg – that I chose to have him as my 'assistant' when the Secretary issued forth with his instruction that I had to have at least one contact other than himself to utilise during missions. He's friendly, easy to get on with, eager to please, and in the twelve months we've been working together he hasn't – penchant for going off on a tangent when I need him to concentrate aside – put a foot wrong.

“Sorry,” Benji repeats apologetically. “I really will try my best not to do it again. Uh... Shouldn't you be on a plane, though? I mean, I know that calls can be made from in the air now, but...”

“I'm still in Paris.”

“You're still in Paris,” he murmurs. “Uh... Of course you are.”

“And I need your help.”

“You've got a new mission? How'd I miss that?”

“It's not a mission per se, I'm just... working a hunch.”

“Your spidey-senses are tingling, huh?”

“Excuse me?” Needless to say, like most of the agencies tech experts, Benji is... a bit of a geek and, more often than I care to admit to, I have close to no idea just what it is he's going on about.

“You know. Spiderman.”

“No. I don't know.”

“Well, when he... Uh... Never mind. You think you're on to something, yeah?”

“I do, yes.” I wish that I didn't, but there you go.

“So... What can I do to help?”

“You know that database we access if we want to confirm the identity of an agent...”

“The one that checks DNA across our records?”

“In this case it's going to be through fingerprints though because I don't have either the DNA tester or an iris scanner with me.”

“Oh. Okay,” Benji replies dubiously as he no doubt tries to work out just where it is I'm going with this.

“Does that, having to rely on fingerprints, change anything?”

“What? No. Of course it doesn't. The database is the same regardless of the sample used.”

“Good. Now... If I checked someone out, would there be a log taken that I'd accessed the records?”

“Uh... Yes, and... no.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Well, no bells and whistles would ring out through the office to tell everyone that you'd accessed a record, but, at the same time, it would still be logged.”

“Logged?”

“Mmm... So if anyone wanted to either check up on what you'd been doing or, alternatively, if a certain agent's records had been accessed, they be able to look through the logs to find out.”

“Oh.” Damn. That is not exactly what I wanted to hear. “Is there a way around this?”

“Around the access being logged?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, if you're just wanting to hide your interest I could set you up with a different log in.”

“But it would still show that someone had accessed the agent's records, yeah?”

“Well, yeah. It would. Given the way the database is set up, there's not really a way around that. Even if you could hack into it without anyone noticing, there'd still be a log that specific records had been accessed. I... Uh... I'm taking it though that's not what you want.”

I sigh. “No. It isn't. I can't explain why at the moment, Benji, but I want to be able to check someone's identity without anyone back at IMF knowing about it. It's very important that I'm able to do this without drawing attention to my interest.”

“Um...” Benji echoes my sigh. “I know! Perhaps I could send you a copy of the backup... If you loaded it on to your computer you'd be able to access the records without it linking back to the server here at HQ. I mean, they wouldn't be one hundred percent up to date, but...”

“I don't need fully up to date,” I interrupt, marvelling, not for the first time or I suspect the last, at how Benji's mind operates and how he always seems to be able to find a way to give me what I need. “In fact, if it makes it any easier for you I don't even want current and actually need the records that date back to seven months ago at the earliest.”

“Well, while it raises my curiosity yet another notch, sadly it doesn't make it any easier for me. I mean, yeah, I can and... will... do it, but do you have any idea how big a file the backup is? It's huge and I'm a little wary that some may question the size of the attachment.”

“Then... What about breaking it down and just sending me the first four letters of the alphabet? Would that help?”

“A, B, C, and D?” Benji queries. “Yeah. That would help, actually. So... Let me get this right. You want to be able to confirm the identity of an agent whose surname begins with either A, B, C, or D, and... not only do you want to be able to do this in complete secrecy, but you also want to do it from records dating back seven months?”

“You've got it in one.”

“And... You're not going to tell me why?”

“Not now, no. Sorry, Benji. But I can't.”

“Maybe later?” he murmurs hopefully.

“Maybe. Now... Those records, you can get them to me today?”

“Within the hour. I'll send it to that other email address you gave me from my private, not attached to IMF in any way, laptop. I'll also include dot point instructions on how to both load and operate it.”

“Brilliant. Thanks for that, Benji.”

“It's important, yeah?”

“Very.”

“Then I'm going to hang up now and get straight on to it,” Benji states as, without even giving me time to either repeat my thanks or say goodbye, he does just that.

Pleased that things appear to going as well as, really, they could be expected to given that when I'd gotten out of bed this morning I'd planned to be on a flight to D.C. by now, I slip my phone in to my pocket and, knowing that I have to move on to 'steps four, five and six', walk back over to the table and flip open the laptop.

Sitting down, the photo of William Brandt, the catalyst for all of this, gazes at me and, as I close the page, I can't help but whisper...

“Hold on. I'm coming.”

~*~*~*~


	3. Chapter Three

~*~*~*~

I love it when a plan comes together.

I think this, currently somewhat apt, catchphrase originally came from some television show or another that was popular in the 80's. Don't ask me which one though as, never having been all that great a fan of the 'idiot box', I wouldn't have a clue and only know the saying, and that it happened to come from a TV show, because there was an agent quite a few years back who used to say it all the time. Any time things went according to plan during a mission, out he'd come – a bit like clockwork, actually – with the saying. The first few times it was novel enough, possibly even slightly amusing. Once everyone had come to expect it and could – behind his back – mouth it in unison with him, it just became both tiresome and annoying, however, and when he got transferred to man a desk in the Madrid office, anyone who had ever worked with him shared a quiet cheer of relief.

Ironically, while I can't even remember with complete certainty the agent's name, what I can remember is his – stolen – catchphrase and, as I wait impatiently for the final pieces of my own carefully thought out and organised plan to fall neatly in to place, it's running in a constant loop through my head.

I love it when a plan comes together.

Please let me have thought of everything, and please let nothing come out of nowhere and blow things off course.

Please let all of the 'T's' be crossed and all of the 'I's' dotted, and, most importantly, please may I get my answer. Yes or no. I don't care so long as it's definite and I can put this gnawing sense of doubt to bed once and for all.

I think I've thought of everything though. I've had all afternoon and, as it's now nearing eleven at night, most of the evening to iron out all of the details, and I'm confident that I've covered everything that I need to and that I'm good to go. 

My... off-site, in-room booking... for the whore known only by the number 28 is, despite it taking both a surprising amount of sweet talk and the promise of paying well above his usual rate to get my way, is confirmed and I'm now just waiting for him to... be delivered to my drab little hotel room. The... booking clerk, or whoever the fuck he was at La Fée Noir, while accepting of my credentials, link to Khavin and acceptability as a 'client', had not – with much stammering and promises that he could send me someone far better – wanted to release 28 to me and for a while I'd honestly thought I was going to have to change tack and, although it was about the last thing I actually wanted to have to do, find a way to break in to the club in my quest to find him. In the end though, in response to my increasing belligerence and airy, 'just name your price' attitude, he capitulated and, just like that, there was 'step four' ticked successfully off my list. 

'Step five', which consisted of vacating the hotel suite I woke up in this morning, both sourcing and moving my stuff into a small flat that, if it comes to it, I can take the man back to, and setting up temporary camp in yet another hotel room, took by far the majority of the time but, again, I like to think that I've managed to cover everything that I've needed to. The room I'm in now, while still in an allegedly five star hotel, is a little more shabby and off the beaten tourist track than my last one and, as the reception desk in the foyer closes at ten at night, my... delivery... should be able to make it up to my room without raising the suspicion of any staff. Even better still, the hotel's parking lot, foyer and elevators are covered by a ludicrously easy to hack in to security system – so easy, in fact, that I didn't even need to call on Benji's assistance to get me in – which means, as I'm monitoring the feed now as it shows live on the screen of my laptop, I'll know the moment my 'take-out' arrives and can run through my last second checks accordingly. 

The only things I have with me in the room, as one way or another – even if it's alone and with egg on my face for over-reacting – I'll be returning to the flat after I've achieved what I've set out to here, are all laid out neatly on the rickety looking table. Laptop, not my IMF allocated one but one I bought this afternoon and which I know can't be traced, satchel to place it in when I'm ready to leave, white USB cable already attached to a port in the computer, and two class rings, each containing a tiny needle and enough powerful sedative to instantly knock out even the most overweight of men. One, as the 'booking clerk' made it painfully clear – all but in words of one syllable he was so desperate to get it through to me – he wouldn't be arriving unescorted, for the man's... handler, and the other, if it ends up coming to it, for the man himself. Knowing that I'll have to move fast when he arrives, the section of the agent database that Benji sent me is already up and running behind the security feed and, because it may as well be in there as anywhere, my cell phone, which in this instance and thanks to the IMF tech geeks modifying iPhones in a way that Steve Jobs probably never even imagined, is going to double a fingerprint scanner, is safely in the pocket of my jeans.

The room, in other words, is set. I only have what I think I'll need with me, it's all on the table where I can pack it up quickly, and the location is private, expensive looking enough to fit my 'cashed up sleaze bag' persona, and easy enough to get in and out of.

My needs having been fairly specific when it came to the sort of accommodation I was looking for, I'm also fairly content with the flat I ended up settling on. The flat itself is neither here nor there. It's small, consisting only of an open plan living area and kitchenette, bathroom, and one bedroom. Designed as a short stay – dirty weekend, even – tourist rental, the flat's owners most likely work on the assumption that their guests won't be spending much time inside anyway and it simply is what it is. The sofa folds out to make a futon, the private courtyard is just about big enough to fit a small table and two chairs on it, the duvet cover is emblazoned with the Eiffel Tower, a framed print of that damn Chat Noir takes pride of place over the bed... Yet, requirement wise it ticks as many boxes for me as the room I'm in now does.

Although it's situated in Pigalle, which is just a little too close for complete comfort to La Fée Verte / Noir for my liking, the flat otherwise suits my needs more than adequately. On a one way street that's not covered by CCTV cameras, it has an on-street parking spot, both a front and a back door, small windows covered by heavy drapes, and the area itself is a mixture of both residential and commercial. Not yet having been either gentrified or entirely given over to tourists or whatever yuppies are called these days, it's a little dirty and despondent looking and, most importantly of all, it's quiet. At the end of the street there's a decent enough selection of local shops catering to the needs of those who live near by to pick up necessities from and, from what I was able to see when I dropped off my luggage and had a bit of a look around earlier, no one seems to pay you a lot of attention.

I don't know how long I'll stay there, or even if I'll be there with company. If the man isn't Brandt then it will most likely only be for tonight and tomorrow, after having come up with some suitably bland-yet-believable bullshit to feed the Secretary, I'll catch the first flight back to the States that I can get a seat on. If it is him though, then... Hell. I don't know. I just honestly don't. While my main goal might be to rescue him from his current predicament, coming a – very – close second is wanting to find out if anyone from IMF helped put him there and, again, I just don't know what form that might end up taking. Maybe he knows, and maybe he doesn't. Maybe he'll need a few days to recuperate, and maybe he'll just want to get straight down to business.

And, of course, maybe he's not even Brandt at all...

Noticing a black Mercedes E Class sedan with dark, tinted windows glide to a stop in the hotel's parking lot, I watch with interest as the driver, a big man, easily over six foot in height and dressed in what looks to be head to toe – cap, jacket, trousers, boots – black leather, gets out and stomps around to the front passenger side door. Wrenching it open, he hauls a smaller man out of the car and, after closing the door with his hip, begins to march him towards the side entrance into the hotel's foyer. Also dressed in all black – jeans, biker boots, tight t-shirt – and with the bigger man's hand gripped around the back waistband of his jeans to propel him along, the man keeps his head lowered and appears to be moving both slowly and a little awkwardly. Even though I can't see his face, I know that he's... Number 28... and that, finally, I'm about to get the answer I've spent all day working towards.

Standing up, I close down the security feed and, not wanting to risk the screen being seen from the doorway, turn the computer around so that it's facing the door leading into the bathroom. I then, as the familiar sense of – let's get this show on the road – anticipation begins to thrum in my veins, walk over to the mirror above the television set and run one final check over my... certainly nowhere near as familiar... reflection. Not wanting to be recognisable once this... charade... is over and done with, I'm wearing a nasty light brown wig that's just long enough to be pulled in to a truly tasteless ponytail, matching light brown moustache, dark brown contact lenses, and, just in case this wasn't enough, a pair of glasses that look as though they came straight out of the 70's. The whole look positively screams of 'creepy pervert', but, it does its job without having to fuck around with either make-up or prosthetics and I'm hardly able to recognise the face in the mirror that's staring back at me.

The plan's the best I could come up with on such short notice, I've arranged things as best that I can, I'm confident that I've got everything covered, and now it's finally time to see whether it's all been worthwhile or not. Just as it was this morning when I first wondered if the man from the folder and Agent Brandt could possibly be one and the same, it's not the actual outcome of all of this that's motivating me so much as simply having a definite answer is. If it is Brandt, then... I'll cross that bridge and all that it implies when I come to it. If it's not, I'll knock both the man and his handler out and, satisfied that I have my answer, will be on my way. It really is, regardless of all the effort I've put into getting myself to this point, as simple at that.

A loud knock on the door causing my lips to curl into a grim, determined smile, I pull the neatly folded bundle of ten thousand euros – the monetary cost of this exercise and the amount of money it took to get the man outside of the confines of the club – out of my pocket and walk across the room to both accept and... pay for... my delivery.

I...

… Love it when a plan comes together. 

Opening the door, I immediately find myself gazing directly at the leather clad chest of the handler and, defiantly lifting my head to show that I'm not intimidated by either his bulk or just what it is he happens to think – loser pervert who has to pay for his kicks – of me, find him looking back at me with an impassive, indifferent expression on his blank, acne scarred face. 

“You Mathias?” he grunts in heavily accented English as, already quite looking forward to the time when I get to knock him out, I fold my arms across my chest and give him a cool look.

“I am,” I confirm with a nod. “And you, I take it, have what I ordered.”

Nodding curtly, the handler takes a step to the left, and, grabbing the man from his hiding place behind him, shoves him forcefully into the room. “You know what to do,” he intones flatly as, stumbling, the man very nearly crashes in to me just before, at the very last second, straightening up and slipping past.

Unsure as to whether the – very much needing a few lessons at charm school – handler was referring to me as much as he was to the man, I shrug and, unfolding my arms, hand over the cash. “It's all there.”

“So it damn well should be,” he mutters, giving me a look that can be best described as dismissive as he takes the money from me and places it in an inside pocket of his leather jacket. He then reaches into another pocket and pulls out about five or so – compliments of La Fée Noir – condoms. Slapping them into my hand, he shrugs and mutters, “La Fée Noir not dealing in diseased goods, fuck clean. Other than that he's yours to do whatever you want to.” Pausing, his thin lips stretch out into a truly unattractive smirk. “Whatever you want. He can't say no.”

“As that's what I'm paying for,” I retort, idly wishing I already had the ring with me so that I could simply knock him out right now and be done with it, “I wouldn't expect anything else.”

“Oh.” His brow furrowing in a way that makes me think the two brain cells he has to rub together are suddenly troubling him, he shakes his head and, narrowing his eyes, gives me a look that's as much suspicious as it is warning. “As you were the one who was so adamant that you had to have him and no one else, don't go complaining to management if you don't like the condition he's in.”

Murmuring, “It's not him I'd be wanting to complain about,” under my breath, I step fully back into the room and both close and lock the door. Turning around, I immediately glance in the direction of the bed as, without really knowing what to expect at all, that's where I thought the man would be waiting for me. 

He's not though.

Of course he's not.

That would, after all, be too easy.

And God knows we just can't have that.

Instead of sitting on the edge of the bed and waiting for me to come in and give my... instructions, he's kneeling, already naked and with his clothes in a neatly folded pile behind him, on the floor in front of the table. Clearly trained – or most likely, beaten – into submission, he has his eyes fixed on the carpet and, by having his hands placed on the back of his head, his entire body is both on display and easily accessible. As his head is lowered, I can't get a good look at his face and, sighing at this unexpected turn of events, know that I just have to push on with working through my original plan.

Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I enter the PIN, access the fingerprint app and, as my heart begins to beat a dull tattoo of anticipation in my chest, walk over to the man. Not wanting to waste my valuable time on either finding the right thing to say to him or stammering over small talk, I remain silent and, shifting behind him, simply grab his hand and quickly press, one by one, the fingers of his right hand on to the screen of my iPhone. I then, as, showing no reaction whatsoever to my peculiar handling of him, the man returns his hand to the back of his head, plug the phone in to the USB cable connected to the laptop and watch, dry mouthed and wide eyed, as the program runs his prints against what I have of the IMF agent database. 

Is it... Isn't it...

Yes... No...

Have I really lost it this time...

… Or was Khavin's desire to share the best absinthe in Paris with me the luckiest coincidence of all time?

Is it... Isn't it...

Was I wrong... Or was I right...

The telltale chime of 'search complete' bringing me crashing back down to reality, I look down at the laptop screen, and...

Fuck!

Agent Confirmed. William Brandt.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I was right.

Oh. Dear. God. I was fucking right.

Which means...

Everything.

And that – instead of blowing a complete and utter fuse – I have to keep moving.

Slamming the screen down, I grab the satchel and shove both the computer and the phone inside before zipping it shut and picking up the two class rings. One, I place in my pocket, while the other I slip onto the ring finger of my right hand and, after lifting away the small piece of fake gold that covers the needle, head determinedly over to the door. Unlocking it, I pull in abruptly open and, before the man mountain leaning against the wall outside the room even has time to notice my sudden appearance, swiftly press the tiny needle into his thick neck. The sedative being both extremely potent and all but instantaneous, he just manages to slur, “What the...,” before slumping, unconscious, in to my waiting arms. Dragging him, which is no easy task given his size, back into the room, I tap the door closed with my foot and manhandle him over to the bed.

Noticing that Brandt is still kneeling on the floor and giving every impression of being completely oblivious to just what it is that's taking place around him, I mutter, “You need to get dressed as we're out of here the second I'm done with this,” as, relying on muscles I haven't had to use for months, I heave the out-cold handler onto the mattress. Stripping – again, with effort and quite a few mumbled expletives – him of his jacket and cap, I quickly pull them on and confirm that both the keys to the Mercedes and the cash I handed over to him in the doorway are in a pocket before pulling the cases off the pillows and using them to tie his hands and ankles to the bedposts. This done, I shove a handkerchief that just happened to be conveniently in the same pocket as the car keys into his mouth as a gag and, satisfied that he isn't going to go anywhere soon, turn my attention back to Brandt.

Brandt, who...

Still hasn't moved.

I've fingerprinted him, knocked out and tied up his handler, and, if, that is, he's even noticed, it's as though it's not even of any interest to him. It's like... He's here physically, but mentally he's on an entirely different planet.

Lost. Resigned. So broken that he honestly doesn't know any better than to just... submit.

Sighing in exasperation, I pick up his clothes and, all the time planning to hold them out to him until he just takes them from me, crouch down in front of him. “Look. I accept that all of this is...” Falling silent as, actually... looking... at him for the first time, I notice he's not as naked as I initially assumed, I groan and drop down into a kneeling position. “Oh... Shit. I'm sorry...”

… Sorry that you've been reduced to this. Sorry that, too focussed on conforming to my plan, I never paused to pay you any real attention. Sorry that...

… I have to do what I'm about to do next.

The wide black leather collar, tight around his neck and locked in place with an actual lock, has to go because there's more than a good chance there's a tracking device hidden somewhere within the small lock. The nasty looking black nipple clamps, not to mention the length of thin rope that – just for something different – is bound tightly around both the base of his cock and separating his balls...

Well. They just have to go because...

They do.

That's all.

Apart from causing him pain, they, although I now know just why it was he seemed to be moving so awkwardly when he got out of the car, serve absolutely no fucking purpose at all and, despite knowing it's a little naïve of me, I'm actually pissed that the club sent him out like – 'here's one I prepared earlier' – this.

“Just... I'm sorry,” I repeat as, shaking off my discomfort, I reach into my pocket for a – never go anywhere without one – paper clip. Unfolding it, I lean forward and, as Brandt continues to pretend none of this is actually happening, reach for the lock that's keeping the collar around his neck. Quickly using the paper clip to pick it, I drop both the lock and the thick strip of leather onto the floor before, with a grimace of apology, pulling off the nipple clamps. Knowing from my own – youthful, experimental, and never repeated – experience with the damn things that the worst pain is actually when they're taken off, I take the coward's way out by not looking at his face to see if that's what it takes to get an actual expression out of him and, while I'm on a roll, moving on to the rope entwined around his genitals. Never having encountered anything quite like it before, I fumble over finding the end of the rope and can feel the red heat of embarrassment stain my cheeks as it takes first one, and then two minutes for me to finally get it free of him. While I'm far from a prude and, liking men even more than I do women, it's not as though I've never held another man's cock in my hand before, but this... This was just invasive, uncomfortable, and, truth be told, I honestly felt as though I was molesting him.

As with everything so far, Brandt didn't show so much as hint of life as I was touching him, but... Whatever. I didn't like it even if he didn't care.

Hoping that he's at least a little bit more comfortable now, I tuck his clothes under my arm and stand up. Accepting that he's so far out of it as to be close to no use to me whatsoever and that I have to take both charge and matters fully into my own hands, I lift his hands away from his head and, placing them by his side, gently pull him upright. Following my prompts without question, or, for that matter, any reaction, he allows me to help him into his clothes. Once he's fully dressed, I retrieve the satchel from the table and take one final look around the room before, confident that I've got everything, linking my arm around Brandt's and leading him over to the door. He comes with me obediently and, as I usher him out into the corridor, I don't know whether I should feel grateful for his silent acceptance of everything that's happening, or whether I should actually be worried about it. I mean, I get that he's drugged and... trained, but surely he's got to be aware at least on some level that what's happening is out of the ordinary. 

Or...

Maybe he's just far gone that he doesn't even care anymore. Just... What will be, will be. Sure, I'm giving every impression of kidnapping him, but... Having been there and done that already, not to mention having lost all hope a long time ago, it's probably not even cause for much interest to him. Let's face it, one sadistic asshole is probably pretty much the same as the next sadistic asshole, and that's just all his life is now. 

Submit. Suffer. Start all over again.

Forcefully quashing these thoughts as I still have the final step of my plan to work through, I pull the door to the room shut and turn over the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the handle so that it's facing out into the corridor. Given that I paid upfront for five days, I'm hoping that it'll be a while before the handler is found tied to the bed and that, once he is, that's where the club's interest in the matter will come to an end. While I have no way of knowing for sure, I suspect, after a token search, that they'll just write... Number 28's... disappearance off as simply 'one of those things'. It'll piss them off, and they may even have a go at Khavin for being the one who introduced me, but I can't help but think that will basically be it. Wanting to be as informed as I possibly could be, I poked around in both the Police Nationale and Interpol's records earlier tonight while waiting for my 'delivery' and wasn't able to find mention of La Fée Noir anywhere. Now, this either means that the club has some – clients – 'friends' in very high places, or that it's just so good at what it does that it exists solely under the radar and has never done anything to draw attention to itself. Whichever one it is though, I just can't see them putting too much effort into trying to find Brandt and will just, wherever the hell it is exactly that they source their... workers... from, quickly replace him with someone else.

Well. That's certainly what I'm hoping for, anyway. La Fée Noir simply cut their losses and that's, until this is all over and I have the time to look into them with more detail, their part in all of this done and dusted.

Not, however, that I'm going to either take this assumption for granted or cut corners in my desire to get away clean. Until I've got Brandt back to the flat in Pigalle the plan is, just as it's always been, to proceed as though this was a high risk mission. Follow the plan. Do not deviate. Monitor.

Move.

Leading Brandt over to the elevator, I hit the call button to bring it to our floor and, just as he appears to be doing instinctively, keep my gaze lowered so that the security cameras in the corridor can't get a good look at my face. When it arrives, we get in and travel down to the ground floor in complete silence. I feel as though I should say something reassuring to him but, not wanting to be caught on camera appearing as though I actually care – better anyone who views the footage think that I am actually kidnapping him – about the man I'm effectively manhandling along with me, I don't say anything until we've cleared the foyer and am outside in the cool night air and walking towards the parking lot. Then, as I spot the Mercedes and pull the keys out of the pocket of the handler's coat, I squeeze my arm a little tighter around Brandt's elbow and force him to come to a momentary stop.

“I know you've got no reason to believe me,” I state quietly, leaning closer to him and speaking directly into his ear, “but... It's over. You're safe now and I'm not going to hurt you. I want you to come with me and, yes, follow my instructions for a little longer, but... You've got to believe me when I say that you're safe and that I'm not going to do anything to hurt you.”

My piece delivered – and, I suspect, travelled straight through to the keeper if Brandt's frozen into a mask of blankness expression is anything to go by – I loosen my grip on his arm and walk him over to the Mercedes. Opening the passenger side door, I help him into the seat and, not wanting to run the risk of leaving it on the backseat, place my satchel for safe keeping on his lap. Seemingly more bemused by this than anything else that's happened to him recently, he actually looks up at me for, oh, all of a split second, before fixing his gaze on the satchel and placing his hands over it.

Needing positives wherever I can get them at the moment, I take this to mean he's still, albeit very deeply buried, in there somewhere and allow myself the luxury of a fleeting smile as I shut his door and jog around the front of the Mercedes in order to open the driver's side and get in. Not having the time to check the car for signs of surveillance of any description, I revert to silence as I start the car and drive it out of the parking lot. Although it's nearing midnight, there's still a lot of traffic on Paris' streets and it takes over twenty minutes of – very nearly road rage inspiring – driving to reach my destination of a large parking garage that caters to the Gare du Nord train station. Entering it, I drive up to the fifth floor and park the Mercedes next to the grey BMW 3 Series sedan that I purchased for cash this afternoon and which, should anyone run a check on it, is still registered to it's previous owner. Killing the engine, I throw the keys under the driver's seat and get out of the car. I then walk around to the passenger door, open it and, because I know he's in no condition to either use his initiative or do anything of his own accord at the moment, gently pull Brandt out of the Mercedes. Accepting, for some reason, that the satchel appears to be his responsibility, he keeps a tight grip on it as, without bothering to lift his head in order to check out his surroundings, I move him over into the passenger seat of the BMW. Once he's settled, I get in behind the wheel and, less than three minutes after entering the parking garage, we're on our way again.

“Just... One more stop and we're finally there,” I murmur, slipping the BMW into a gap in the traffic barely big enough for a FIAT Punto and, ignoring the blaring horn of the irate driver that I just cut off, putting my foot down. “I don't know if you've ever had the misfortune of driving in this Godforsaken place, but I fucking hate Parisian drivers,” I add redundantly as, sneaking a glance at Brandt, I find him still staring down at the satchel. He could, or so I imagine anyway, be absolutely anywhere for all that it matters to him and, accepting that now still isn't the time for small talk, I don't open my mouth again until, ten minutes of erratic driving later, I'm bringing the car to a smooth stop in a darkened, CCTV-free side street.

“Last stop,” I mutter as, suddenly showing another, random sign of life, Brandt jerks his head up and – being nothing if not a quick learner – tentatively reaches for the door handle. “We're not changing cars this time,” I clarify with a hopefully reassuring looking smile as I reach over and, with a light touch, return his hand to the satchel. “Just give me a second to do a quick plate change and we'll be on our way again before you even know it.”

Getting out of the BMW, I pull the – attached with double sided tape and placed there not long after I purchased the car – stolen number plate off the front bumper to unveil the one that actually belongs to the vehicle before hurrying around to the back and repeating my action there. Once both plates are in my hands and the BMW – dull in colour, free of modifications, damage, or stickers, and with nothing to make it look any different to any of the thousands of the same model driving around Paris – is no longer able to be linked to the one that drove out of the parking garage, I place them in the trunk and quickly return to the drivers seat.

“Hey, you can never be too careful,” I murmur with a shrug as, having done what I can to ensure as clean a getaway as possible, I turn the key in the ignition, put the car into gear, and pull away from the curb. Although I know it's both something that I can't avoid forever and that, especially since we've been in the BMW, I probably should have done it already, I continue to hold off on introducing myself to Brandt and simply concentrate on my driving. There's a lot I need to say to him but, not knowing how he's going to take it, or even if, going on his demeanour and just how drugged I'm thinking he has to be, he's currently capable of taking any of it in, I want to wait until I'm able to look him in the eyes. I want to be able to watch him because I need to be able to monitor his – should there even be one, that is – reaction and I also, which I can't do while I'm driving, need to devote my full attention to it.

And... Fine. As I know it's not going to be a fun conversation and that I stand a very good chance of fucking it up somehow, it's not something I'm looking forward to.

He's...

Reining my thoughts in before they get away from me, I focus on driving the BMW through the traffic until, close to three-quarters of an hour after having first guided Brandt out of the hotel room, we've reached the flat in Pigalle and I'm able to bring it to its final stop for the night.

“Okay. This is it. Home... uh... sweet home,” I murmur, climbing out of the car and walking around the front of it to open the passenger side door. “I know it probably feels as though it's taken longer that it should have, but... This is it. We're here now,” I add as I help Brandt out of the BMW. Impassive as ever, he continues to keep a tight hold on the satchel and follows me up to the door of the flat without hesitation. Unlocking it, I turn the lights on and, as I use the remote to lock the car, gesture him inside. “It's more two star than five, but... It'll do.”

Shutting the door, I check, and then double check, that it's locked before taking the satchel from Brandt with a smile of thanks and walking over to the small, most likely IKEA dining table that more or less separates the kitchenette from the rest of the flat's main room. Placing it down on the table on my way past, I head over to the refrigerator and, suddenly feeling as though I'm in desperate need of a drink, grab myself a can of beer. I know I'm stalling for time, and that alcohol isn't going to make things any better, but... Seriously. What am I going to say to him? My plan never stretched this far. In fact, it only ever stretched to checking the man's identity against Brandt's and, if need be, successfully disappearing with him. That was it though. Check, and rescue. Not... check, rescue, and...

Look after. 

I thought...

Fuck.

I don't know what I thought.

That he'd recognise me? Realise that it was over? Immediately revert to being an agent and just give me the name of whoever it was that sold him out?

I just...

Again. I don't know what I thought.

Flipping the tab on the can, I gulp down a couple of mouthfuls of beer and, knowing that I have to, that I can hardly put this off forever, turn around to face the... unplanned for... part of my plan.

And...

Again.

Naked. Kneeling on the cold tiles. Hands behind head. On display.

Trained to perfection, knowing no better and expecting nothing less.

Just...

...Waiting for it to start.

Neither anything I've said nor any of my actions having gotten through the fog of fear and submission in his head, he still thinks all I want from him is – his body – to use him.

The half a can of beer I'd only just swallowed sitting heavily in my stomach and only adding to how ill I suddenly feel, I stare at Brandt as it slowly dawns on me that it's honestly as though I'm looking at him, and... really... seeing him, for the first time.

To me, he's been...

A naked model in artistic photographs contained within an elegant folder.

A naked... inconvenience... in the hotel room.

An... awkward... naked inconvenience in the hotel room who, as it happened, wasn't as entirely naked as I'd originally thought.

And now...

Hurriedly placing the beer can on the table before it slips from my fingers, I shake my head numbly and, although I know that I shouldn't, that I'm being as selfish as I am insensitive, just continue to stare at him.

In the folder, he was little more than an object. Something to be ogled and, if you desired, bought and paid for.

When I got the bee in my bonnet that he may have been an IMF agent, he... became a mission. Something to be planned around and, if need be, retrieved. In this respect he could just as easily have been an inanimate object, like a file or a weapon.

In the hotel room, he was something to be both checked out and packed up to be taken away.

And now...

Now that all the steps of my plan have been completed and I'm in uncharted waters, he's...

… A man.

A living, breathing, not to mention vulnerable and extremely traumatised, man. 

A man who has just lived through the worst six months of his life and, realising this as I stare at him as though transfixed, who I'm going to have to try to care for to the best of my limited ability. He should be in a hospital and under the care of trained professionals who'd know how to put him back together again. I know – better late than never – that, but... If IMF know that he's alive we'll lose the best chance we have of springing a surprise on the mole I'm convinced has to be back at HQ as, suspecting that we'd soon be on to him, he'd probably just disappear. So... I have to try. For his sake as much as anything, I have to try to help Brandt in a way that, while not being detrimental to his recovery, will keep him with me and out of hospital.

If, however, after a couple of days at most it seems as though I'm doing him more damage than good, then I'll... revisit my pig headed stance and do whatever it is that's best for Brandt.

Sighing, I'm about to – reluctantly – go over to him when, out of nowhere, I suddenly remember I'm wearing a disguise. Although I'm doubtful it will make that much, if any, of a difference to him, I shrug out of the handler's jacket and drop it on to the floor before pulling off everything else – cap, wig, glasses, contacts, moustache – and placing them next to the beer can on the table. Mentally offering a silent prayer to any deity that may be bored enough to be watching any of this that the sudden change in my appearance isn't the straw than finally freaks Brandt out, I run my fingers through my hair and, taking the long route, the one around the sofa as opposed to directly past him, begin to walk towards the bedroom.

“I... I'm sorry.” Lame, I know. But, really, what can you say? 'Please, put it away. I'm not interested?' 'Given a choice between anything of a sexual nature right now and watching paint dry, I'd take the paint in a heartbeat?'

He's far from being an unattractive man. Posed and empty like he is, though? He's not sexy. And thinking that there are those out there who, if he was kneeling in front of them, would be rubbing their hands together gleefully as they plotted what they could put him through, it...

It just churns my stomach.

To each their own. Live and let live. If it floats your boat and is both consensual and desired by both parties, then... what you do in your own time is your business and not mine.

But... Not this. Not by captivity, drugs and force.

I...

What am I doing?

More to the point, what am I... going... to do? 

Reaching the bedroom, I put the light on and spying a black, fake-fur blanket draped across the foot of the bed, walk over and scoop it up. Shaking the blanket out, I carry it back in to the living area with the intention of draping it over Brandt's shoulders and, as I near him, I see something that immediately brings the handler's bland warning to mind.

“Don't go complaining to management if you don't like the condition he's in.”

Shit.

It makes sense to me now, and God knows I wish that it didn't.

His back and ass, which I'd never paid any notice to before because I was just too busy treating him like an object, is a mass of bruises, abrasions and welts. Without wanting to – hell, I feel sick enough already – study it in too much detail, I can see at least three welts, caused, I would think, by some inexperienced asshole with a whip, that are still red raw and I don't even want to contemplate how much pain they must be causing him.

“I... Shit.” Exhaling deeply, I force myself to walk up behind Brandt and, as gently as I can manage, pull his arms away from his head and drop them to his sides before draping the blanket over his shoulders and moving around in front of him. “I... I'm just so sorry,” I murmur softly as, kneeling down, I pull the blanket fully around his body. “Please... You don't have to... uh... hold position... for me and I'd really like you to relax.” Closing my hands lightly around his upper arms, I apply just enough downward pressure until, getting the hint, he slumps down and rests his butt on his heels.

Although now securely wrapped in a blanket and no longer on display, Brandt looks no more comfortable or... capable of independent thought... than he did a second ago and I know that I'm just going to have to persevere. 

“Hey... Please... Look at me.” Shuffling a few inches back so as not to appear as though I'm crowding him, I tell myself that I'll count to thirty before, if he doesn't move, pushing on regardless. Clearly not being one to rush into things, I'm up to twenty-five before Brandt slowly lifts his head and looks at me through downcast, heavy lidded eyes that are far more grey in colour than they are the blue that's listed in his IMF records.

Relieved that, if nothing else, he can understand me – even if it does appear to be only in respect to following what he might take as an order – I flash him a smile and, mirroring his position, make myself more comfortable by resting my butt on my heels. “I know this is a lot for you to take in and, because of this, I'm going to keep it brief for now as I don't want to overload you,” I state, watching him closely as he continues to gaze at me blankly, “but... My name is Ethan Hunt, and I'm an IMF agent.” This, just about as I would have felt safe betting my life on, having no discernible effect on him, I bite back a sigh and quietly add, “Maybe I'm only stating the obvious here. In fact, I hope that I am, but... Just in case I'm not, your name is William Brandt and... uh... you're an IMF agent as well.”

And... Well I never. That... bombshell... too was met with no reaction. I know that he can hear me, and I know that he's capable of following orders, which implies that he can understand me, but...

Nothing.

I suspect that I could have come out and declared that I now both owned him and got off on my... belongings... wearing women's lingerie and high heels, and that that too wouldn't have garnered any form of reaction from him.

“This...” Knowing that I have to, I try again. “This is too much for you, isn't it?”

Nothing.

“You can talk, you know, and don't need my permission to do anything.”

Nothing.

“Come on. Talk to me. I'm not going to hurt you and will do anything in my power to help you. You... You're safe now, Brandt, and it's over. No one's going to hurt you again.”

And... Still nothing.

A truly dreadful thought – I've... heard stories. Horrible stories of how the victims of vicious pimps have had their teeth and tongues removed because there are some truly disturbed individuals out there who believe it makes their mouth better to fuck – suddenly slipping uninvited into my head, I grimace and, wishing that I didn't have to, mutter, “Please... Help me out here and open your mouth.”

Possibly relieved to be able to respond to what I seem to want from him, Brandt dutifully opens his mouth wide and, leaning forward, I note with no small degree of – heartfelt – relief that he still has both his tongue and teeth and, before I can stop myself, reach out and close my hand around his shoulder. “Just... Thank God. I had this awful thought that... Uh... Never mind...” Trailing off before I carelessly plant a thought in his mind that he really doesn't need, I smile weakly and pull my hand away. “Sorry. I... I'm not really doing a good job of helping you, am I...”

Sighing for what feels like the umpteenth time tonight, I cock my head to the side and, as I look at the clearly damaged man in front of me, make a snap decision in regards to how I'm going to proceed.

“Okay. Unless you're able to come up with something better, this is what I think we're going to do,” I murmur as I shift into a crouch. “Not having a clue as to the drugs they've obviously pumped into you, not to mention I suspect you're most likely dehydrated as well, what I'm thinking of is getting you something to drink before letting you take a shower and putting you to bed.” Oh yeah. Good one, Hunt. “Uh... And by... uh... putting, I mean... Alone. As in, you can have the bed while I have the sofa. I... I know I'm repeating myself here, but... If you take nothing else out of any of this, take... this, the fact that you really are safe and that I'm not going to hurt you...”

Feeling as though I'm running as much out of steam as I am words, I shrug and, without giving myself time to fall prey to doubt, get to my feet and walk into the kitchenette. Retrieving a bottle of water from the fridge, I twist the lid off and – okay, despite not particularly... wanting... to – return to Brandt and crouch back down in front of him. “Here.” I hold the bottle out towards him and try not to twitch with impatience as he slowly pulls his left hand out from under the folds of the blanket and hesitantly takes it from me. “It's only water, I'm afraid, but... I think, even if you don't feel as though you're thirsty, that it would probably do you good to start getting your fluids up. So... Uh... Yeah. Have a drink.”

Doing as he's told clearly being something Brandt's mastered to perfection, he brings the bottle to his lips and, all the time keeping a wary eye on me, starts to drink. He's about halfway through the bottle when three unwanted thoughts hit me at once. One, is that he's going to finish the water before I know it, two, is that the only reason he's probably drinking at all is because I told him to, and three, which is the worst of all, is the hideous sinking feeling that he's still afraid of me and is only doing what I tell him because he's scared of the consequences if he defies me.

Groaning, I reach over and, curling my hand around the bottle, gently pull it away from his lips. “Hey, slow down,” I murmur as, his eyes widening, Brandt lowers his head and pulls his hand back under the soft fur of the blanket. “No. Shit! It's okay. I'm not angry with you and I'm not going to punish you for not finishing the damn water. Just... Fuck! I wanted you to drink for... uh... health reasons, not because I'm playing some sort of sick game where I want to fill you up before forcing you to hold it in or anything like that. I... Hell. In case it's escaped your attention, I have no fucking idea what I'm doing, okay? I... Clearly being a bigger idiot than anyone has ever given me credit for, I didn't think this far ahead and I... I'm sorry, but I don't know what I'm doing.”

I know that I'm babbling, and that by the time I've finished applying my – very – rusty 'caring and sharing' skills to Brandt he'll probably be wishing that I'd just spanked him and been done with it, but... This. All of it. It's above and beyond both my pay grade and my expertise. I'm an excellent agent, and have never considered myself to be that much of a loner, but nor am I exactly a 'people person'. It's one of the few things I miss about being in a team, actually. The different personalities and skill sets. While I mightn't be any good at comforting victims, for example, it hasn't really mattered as there's always been one member of the team who would approach the task instinctively and as though it was second nature to them. The last thing I want is to hurt Brandt, and whether I'm doing a good job of showing it or not, I really do have his best interests at heart and will do whatever I can to help him. I...

I'm just not sure that I've got it in me, that's all.

I've been on my own and avoiding anything that has any relation to – normal – human contact for so long, that I'm just floundering. And I know, as I'm the one in charge here and that Brandt's effectively reliant on me, that I can't, that I just have to wake up to myself and get – with the program – on with it. 

And, if it's difficult or unpleasant, or I fuck up here or there, then... So be it. Regardless of how sorry I might be feeling for myself, Brandt's got it a thousand times worse and I just have remember that, ultimately, it's not about me at all. It's about an agent betrayed by the employer that should have protected him and, even more importantly and the bit I need to remember, it's about a man who has suffered horrible abuse and needs to be put back together again.

“I... I'm just sorry,” I repeat with a wan smile and a shake of my head as, returning the lid to the bottle and placing it on the floor, I stand up. “If you're thirsty then, please, drink. There's more bottles in the fridge and you're welcome to as many of them as you'd like. Just... Don't think you have to do everything I tell you just because... uh... it's what I'm telling you to do. You... You're your own man and I'm not your... master, or your... keeper, and I'm certainly not your jailer. Uh...” 

Sighing, I crouch back down again. “While I'm on that... I'm not going to hurt you, and you're safe with me, but... All in the name of complete honesty here, you're not... exactly... free as, and this is why you're here instead of either a hospital or on a flight back to the States, I want you to stay with me,” I state as matter-of-factly as I can manage given that I'm basically telling him he's escaped one prison only to find himself in another. “I... I want to keep the fact that you're still alive a secret until we, and, yes, I'm going to need your help here, can get to the bottom of what happened to you and whether it can be linked back to IMF. So... It's over, and you're safe, but... unless your health takes a turn for the worse or it becomes clear to both of us that it's just not working and you need more than I can offer you, you're... Uh... That is, you're kind of stuck here with me. Safe, but... stuck.”

Taking all of this in the same impassive stride he's been taking everything, Brandt gives no indication of acknowledging so much as a single word of anything I've just said and, deciding not to push it for the time being, I stand back up and walk over to the bathroom. Entering it, I turn on the light and, focussing solely on the goal of getting Brandt safely into bed so that I can have the time to try to make better sense of my thoughts and just what it is I need to be doing, walk across to the shower. Spotting a laminated sign on the tiled wall next to it, I read the friendly little warning left by the flat's owner that the tank runs out of hot water after ten minutes and, making a mental note to keep this in mind, reach into the cubical and turn on the water. Once I've got the temperature to my liking, I return to Brandt and hold my hand out towards him.

“Come on, you,” I murmur as, once again both slowly and hesitantly, he reaches his hand out from under the blanket and places it in mine. “While I hasten to add that this is entirely for your own personal benefit and has nothing to do with how I view you, I think it would be a good idea for you to have a shower,” I state softly as I help him up off the floor and turn him in the direction of the bathroom. “So... Come on. A quick, oh, and, sorry, it is going to have to be quick because the hot water's going to run out in something like eight minutes now, shower followed by bed and, hopefully, a good night's sleep.”

As I'm already coming to take for granted, Brandt allows me to lead him into the bathroom as though being told what to do is the most natural thing in the world to him, but, and this I actually take to be a good sign, he then surprises me by giving the tiniest of... twitches... when I start to gently remove the blanket from him. He doesn't grab at it or... fight... me, but I can still see that, for all of split second, he forgot what he was supposed to be – nothing, an object without feelings and whose only purpose was to submit – and didn't want to give it up. 

“Hey... It's okay,” I whisper, letting the blanket fall back down on his shoulders. “You can't shower in the blanket and, it's okay, it really is... Once you're in the shower I'm going to go in to the bedroom and get you some pyjamas to put on, so... It's okay.” Pausing, I move around Brandt to stand in front of him. “Come on... The longer you stand here the quicker the hot water is going to run out. So, please... Just let me have the blanket and get into the shower...”

Reaching for the blanket, I wait the few seconds it takes for Brandt to let go of his hold on it before gently pulling it away from him and draping it over my arm. This leaves him once again naked in front of me and while, given that in the time we've spent together he's been in the nude for by far the majority of it, this shouldn't even be something I pay any attention to, it's...

Yet again, it's honestly like I'm seeing him for the first time.

In the hotel room I was close enough to him to hold his cock in my hand, but I never... looked... at him. Not really. He was just a naked body that I wanted dressed and on his feet. I might have noticed that he was pale, and that he was a lot thinner than he'd been when the photos used in both the folder and the club's website had been taken, but that would have been it.

What I didn't notice was... just how pale he is, and how all the small bruises, burn marks and cuts that litter his entire body stand out starkly against the whiteness of his flesh. Or... just how smooth he is courtesy of having no body hair.

“I...” Stopping myself just in time from reverting to my current favourite statement of 'I'm sorry', I pick Brandt's hand up and lead him over to the shower cubical. “Go on. If the water's too hot or too cold, feel free to change it.” I then give his hand a quick squeeze before letting it go and, without waiting to see if he even gets in the shower or not, bolting from the bathroom. 

I might not have known William Brandt, and the man I've got in my care now might be little more than a complete stranger to me, but I swear, and I don't care how long, or even what it takes, I'm going to get the bastards that did this to him. Without even knowing all the details, it would have been kinder, and certainly more humane, to just have killed him. I've been captured, tortured, and close to death myself. I've even been drugged and threatened with rape. What I've never been though is held for six months and repeatedly assaulted or used like a living, bleeding blow up doll. I look at Brandt, and I imagine what he's been through, and I just want to scream. Perhaps the men who used him thought it was just a job to him, that perhaps he even was a masochist who got off on it. Maybe even the owners of La Fée Noir thought he'd been handed over to them because that's what he wanted. Someone though, six months ago in Germany, sold him into that life and I'm not going to rest until I have them either behind bars or in a coffin.

Suddenly feeling bone weary, I carry the blanket into the bedroom and drape it over the bed before folding back the bedding and going over to my suitcase. Opening it, I ferret through the contents until I come to a clean pair of navy blue cotton pyjama pants and a khaki coloured t-shirt that will do for Brandt to sleep in. Sleepwear obtained, I cast a critical eye over the room and, wanting to make things as comfortable and reassuring for him as I can, I decide to turn the lamp on the bedside table on in order to act as a sort of night light. This done, I glance at my watch and, seeing that it's near the time for the hot water to be running out, return to the bathroom.

Giving the doorframe a cursory knock as I enter, I place the pyjamas on the vanity unit and walk over to the shower cubical. Both noticing my arrival and having no doubt been expecting me, Brandt turns off the water and, as I snatch up a towel from the rack, steps out of the shower. Without looking at me, he takes the towel from my hand and, as I stand, not quite knowing what to do with myself and flat-footed in the middle of the bathroom, dries himself.

“I know it was probably too short,” I murmur as, once he's dry, I hand him the pyjamas, “but hopefully that might have made you feel a little better. Oh!” It just being the night for it, another unwanted thought suddenly presents itself in my head and, shrugging, I gesture at the toilet. I'm not into the world of S&M personally, but that doesn't mean I don't know more about it that, really, I ever wanted to. I also, thanks to the work I do, know more about paedophilia, torture, and dictators than I ever particularly wanted to as well. It's just... knowledge. Stuff you pick up here and there and which you never know whether it will come in handy or not. Some masters, for example, find it – for reasons I'm completely in the dark about, but there you go – entertaining to refuse to allow their slaves to go to the toilet when they want to and make them hold it in until they magnanimously give their permission for them to relieve themselves, and if there's... any... chance of that being the belief here then it just has to be stomped out right here and now. “The bathroom, and everything in it, is yours to use whenever you want. If you want a shower, or... to use the toilet, then... just do it. You don't need my permission for... uh... anything, really...” Trailing off, I start to walk out of the bathroom. “Just... There's a clean toothbrush by the basin. So... If you want to clean your teeth or... uh... go to the toilet, I'll just wait for you outside.”

Pulling the door three-quarters shut as I step into the living area, I run my fingers loosely through my hair, sigh – loudly – and, because I need something to do, walk into the kitchenette and tip the rest of the can of beer down the sink. I then, again, solely in the name of keeping busy, grab two bottles of water out of the fridge and, walking into the bedroom, place them on the bedside table. It's then, just as I'm seriously contemplating sinking down on to the edge of the bed, that I hear the toilet flush, followed by the sound of water running in the basin, and, although it's a small thing, a fucking insignificant thing, really, suddenly feel better than I had only a minute ago.

Not wanting to appear as though I'm hovering around him though, I wait until I hear the bathroom door being fully opened before leaving the bedroom and smiling a greeting at Brandt as, unless I'm mistaken, he stands in the doorway looking around the room for me. Still damp from the shower, and covered by my pyjamas that, although we're the same height, are positively baggy on him, he looks both tired and vulnerable. His vague, vacant expression has been replaced by one of obvious tiredness and, as I walk over to him and link my elbow around his, I think it's a good job that the only place he's going is to bed. He also, which, he shouldn't as he's only two years younger than I am, looks both incredibly young and... lost. So very, very lost.

“Come on, the bed's this way,” I murmur, tightening my elbow around his and slowly walking him towards the bedroom. “This being my first night here, I have no idea whether the mattress is actually comfortable or not, but it's all yours,” I state as, entering the room, I guide him over to the bed and help him down onto it. “As you can see, your blanket's here too and I hope, as I don't know if there's any others around, that you'll be warm enough. Now... I'm going to leave the lamp on for you and, as you've now seen all that the flat has to offer, I think you both know where everything is and that, if there's anything you want, you're just to help yourself. So...” Pulling the bedding up over Brandt as, looking as though he can barely keep his eyes open, he curls up on his side, I only just control the urge to plant a soft kiss on his forehead and, shocked by this unexpected feeling, suddenly can't get out of the room quick enough. “I hope you sleep well and, if you want me for anything, I'll just be out here,” I add just a touch breathlessly as I turn the overhead light off and start to pull the door half shut. “And... Please. Don't worry. You're safe with me and I give you my word that I'll do everything in my power to help you. Brandt, we'll... We'll get them. Somehow, we'll get them...”

First we just have to successfully navigate the... bound to get rockier before it evens out... path in front of us. Brandt's damaged, and I already know that I'm going to have to find a doctor to look him over as his back needs attention and I suspect he could do with a dose or two of antibiotics to assist in the physical side of his healing, and I'm out of my depth, but...

Together, we'll get there.

We have to.

~*~*~*~


	4. Chapter 4

~*~*~*~

Slipping my sunglasses on to my nose, I check my pockets to confirm that I've got the flat keys and, despite knowing full well that it's both a complete waste of my breath and an exercise in futility, glance over at Brandt and murmur, “So... You're good to go?”

Brandt, not that this comes as any great surprise to me, doesn't reply, doesn't even so much as glance up at me from his slumped position on the sofa and, accepting that either sighing in exasperation or making a tsking sound of annoyance under my breath isn't going to achieve anything of any benefit, I simply walk over and, as I'm rapidly becoming used to, crouch down in front of him. While the realist in me hadn't been expecting a miracle, the small, rarely seen wishful thinking part of my mind had still nonetheless been hoping that, after having had seven hours of deep, restful sleep, he would have been... better... this morning. Not raring to go or talking up a storm or anything like that, just... better. More alert. More confident of his surroundings. Possibly even up to whispering a response here or there. Not being picky, I'd have taken anything.

But, no.

If anything – and again, the realist in me is firmly of the opinion that this isn't exactly a surprise at all – he's even a little worse than he was when I helped him into bed. He's paler, seems a bit more on the vague side than he was last night, and possibly even a touch dithery. I get that it both stands to reason and that I'd better wake up to the fact that it's probably going to get worse before I actually start to see any signs of improvement, but... I don't know, it's still just something of a disappointment somehow.

Having spent most of the night – not sleeping like I should have – trawling the internet for information pertaining to Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder and victims of captivity and sexual abuse, I now like to think that I have a much better idea as to just what it is I've gotten myself in to. I could be wrong, of course, especially as some of the case studies I encountered were just too much to take in, but, even though I don't have a background in psychiatry and actually skimmed over most of the reports as opposed to reading them in detail, I still think I've now got a better view of the... bigger picture. In terms of where we're at right here and now, the most important factor to take in to consideration, the one, in fact, I've been working towards for the past two hours, is to ensure Brandt receives the medical attention he needs for the physical side of his injuries. In case I've missed anything or, worse, can't even see it, he needs to be looked over so that the – hopefully – easily fixed side of things can be taken care of before focussing on the far larger concern of his mental issues.

I'm not... too... concerned about his continued silence. Yes, it's an inconvenience, and he's going to have to start talking at some point if I'm ever going to get his side of the story out of him, but for the time being at least I'm prepared to be patient. I know, given his ability to – tentative and wary though it may be – follow directions, that there's no problem with either his hearing or comprehension, and that can only be viewed as a positive. He understands what I'm saying and, so long as it's something he feels he can do without running the risk of accidentally failing and earning my disapproval, he does it without too much hesitation. Once he got over his shock – very quickly, fortunately, but not without first making me feel momentarily like the reincarnation of Hitler – of having been gently shook awake an hour ago, he's done everything I've needed him to do without too much prompting. Sure, I felt like a complete ass for having to wake him, especially as he was so obviously sound asleep, but, needing to make the appointment time the doctor agreed to squeeze him in to, I didn't really have any choice and just had to get him up. And... It went... okay. He woke up, ate the cut up apple I offered to him by way of breakfast, drank half a bottle of water and, as I babbled my explanation of just why it was I happened to be in his face and harassing him to move, took the clothes I'd managed to dig up for him and, both unquestioningly and obligingly, put them on. So, again, I have no doubt whatsoever in respect to his ability to comprehend what's going on. Of course, he's still only following directions and isn't showing any initiative or willingness to do his own thing, but... it's a start.

I could just be making up things as I go along, but my current line of thinking is that the reason behind both his silence and – mute – acceptance of direction can most likely be explained by the truly dominating nature of the training he was subjected to. Not having been deemed worthy of having a voice by the assholes who were holding him captive, no one would have listened to him anyway and, as much as I might hate to think it, he may even have been punished every time he dared to speak up. So... Fine. I get it. Barring there being a physical reason that I'm not yet aware of, he'll simply talk when he's good and ready. 

It's not something I can hurry along any more than I can just push an invisible button to – as easily as that – clear all the drugs out of his system. As I don't currently have access to the lab rats back at HQ that I'm usually able to send blood samples for analysis to, it's unlikely that I'll ever know just what is they've been giving him to keep him docile and can only hope, given the lack of track marks, that it's solely been in pill form and not the far slower release method of depot injections. Thanks to what I read about similar cases on the internet, the drug combination of choice seems to be the animal tranquiliser, Ketamine, and whatever anti-psychotic or anti-anxiety medication that has a calming, sedative effect that they can get their hands on. Not addictive or habit forming, but still enough for the body to have adapted to. He'll be used to it, there'll be lingering residual effects for days and, just because he needs something else to kick him while he's down, I half suspect he may even have the... joy... of having to go through withdrawal symptoms in his very near future. 

None of it's great news, but I know that it could be worse. That, and it is what it is. What Brandt's been through can't simply be... undone. What he has in his favour though is the fact that he's alive, still arguably in one piece, and, without wanting to sound as though I'm over-crediting myself here or anything like that, what's he's also now got is my pig-headed determination on his side. I'll fight with him every step of the way and, regardless of how much I might want to continue my single handed crusade against the parasites lurking around IMF and ruining it for everyone, I'll make a very deliberate point of always putting his needs first.

He might not, take now for example, appreciate it, and might even be sitting there wishing that I'd just fuck off and leave him alone, but, everything that I'm doing I'm honestly doing it with his best interests at heart. Hell. I wouldn't have put so much effort into finding a suitable doctor for him or, for that matter, be crouched here hoping like crazy that he actually has the energy to make it through the five to ten minute walk to said doctor's, if I didn't.

“Hey... As we really are going to have to get a move on if we're going to make it to the appointment on time,” I state with a bland, non-threatening smile as I reach out my hand and rest it lightly on Brandt's knee, “not to mention the small fact of life that I'm starting to feel a bit pretentious wearing my sunglasses inside, how about we head off, yeah?”

Not wanting to get my hopes up in terms of getting any form of acknowledgement out of him, I don't waste any time in hanging around and, standing up, simply walk back over to the door. “Brandt? I don't want to push you, but...” Falling silent as, both slowly and with obvious difficulty, he gets to his feet and begins to walk across the room to join me, I open the door and step outside into the brilliant summer sunshine. 

While I'm yet to give Brandt all the details of the less than delightful doctor I've found to take him to, not to mention the actual specifics of the bullshit story I fed the doctor to convince him we were definitely his... breed... of clientele when I called to make the appointment, I plan to do so during the walk. Since he's been up this morning I've noticed that he's better when he's got something to focus on and isn't just left to his own devices. Be it eating what's been placed in front of him or taking the clothes that have been handed to him and putting them on, he concentrates solely on the task at hand and I think this, as it keeps him occupied, is something he's grateful for. I only left him sitting, alone, on the sofa for five or so minutes while I used the bathroom and got changed, but even in that short period of time he managed to slip into a depressed looking funk and I can only put that down to not having anything to both focus on and take his mind off the completely and utterly fucked state of his life. 

I'm not – especially seeing that I have to keep my own sanity intact here as well – saying that I plan on baby-sitting him during his every waking moment, but, for now, and in relation to achieving my goal of him making it to the doctor's under his own steam, I think giving him something to both listen to, and take in, while he walks is the way to go. If I tell him what I know about Dr Poupard, and explain the – far from onerous or asking anything of his acting abilities – role I've painted for him, he'll focus on that and, hopefully, nothing else. Not his fear or doubt, or the fact that he's feeling either sick or tired and just wanting nothing more than to crawl back into bed and pull the blankets over his head. Just... Taking one step after another and following what it is I'm telling him. That's all. 

A very quiet, very brief, and very, very unexpected whimpering sound coming from behind me as I stand, gazing out at nothing in particular on the street, I spin around and find Brandt has stepped out of the flat and joined me outside. It's also, to my instant consternation, clear that he's in pain as, pressing his back against the brick wall and squinting, he brings his hands up to his face before – no doubt because he doesn't want to be seen as doing something he hasn't been given permission for – just as quickly dropping them back to his sides and lowering his head. While there's no denying it's the most animated I've actually seen him, watching him struggle to control both the tears welling in his eyes and his actions isn't at all pleasant to watch, and for a dreadful moment all I feel is helpless. This man, the one who in my misguided sense of always... fighting the good fight... I believe I can successfully put back together again without any assistance from anyone better suited to the monumental task, is obviously having a bad reaction to something... I've... somehow exposed him to, and...

Helpless.

It just makes me feel fucking helpless.

“I... Shit. Are you...”

Yeah. Good one, dumb ass. Go ahead and blithely ask him if he's okay when not only is it fairly fucking obvious that he isn't, but that, hey, it's not as though he's going to reply anyway.

Then, as he half turns to face the doorway, it finally dawns on me.

The sun.

And being outside.

Used to being kept in the club or being taken out at night, the shock of being outside in the daylight and the brightness of the sun is having a bad reaction on his system, and...

There's no help for it. I'm a selfish, insensitive moron.

“Fuck!” I exclaim. “Brandt, I... As always, I'm so fucking sorry for not having thought of this sooner. Just... Here.” Taking off my cap – or, to be more exact, the handler's black cap that I relieved him of last night and which, when I saw it just sitting on the table this morning, I thought I may as well wear – I place it on Brandt's head before quickly taking my sunglasses off and slipping them carefully onto his face. “Take... both these and my thousand and one apologies. I... I just never even thought and for that, as freaking always, I'm terribly sorry. If it's too much and you'd prefer, even though there's more than a good chance that I won't be able to get a park any closer than this and will just have to let you out while I come back here and dump the car before running back to join you, to be driven to the appointment, then... Just point at the car. I don't, despite not doing a good job of proving it, want to cause you any more pain and... Uh... Whatever you want. Point at the car or, if you're feeling up to it, start to walk off to your left. I... I really don't mind either way...”

Both the sunglasses and the cap having thankfully done their job of protecting his delicate – and, yet again, I don't want to think about just how long he might have been kept in the dark for – eyesight, Brandt straightens his shoulders and, as a determined expression appears on his pale face, starts to walk off.

“Walking it is then,” I murmur with a relieved smile as, after pulling the door shut and confirming that it's securely locked, I set off after him. “You know, I really hope you're not one to bear grudges and aren't just keeping a list of all of my fuck ups to hold against me at a later time,” I add in a light, easy going tone to indicate that what's done is done and that I'm more than fine with just putting the latest example of both his frailty and my lack of suitability for the task at hand to the side and simply moving on. “If you are though, just wait until I tell you about the doctor I'm dragging you to see. I reckon he'd have to be worth at least double demerit points, if not a huge black mark, all on his own.”

Catching up with Brandt, I slow my pace to get in step with him and, as I continue to – act my heart out – smile as though I haven't got a care in the world, try to see him as a stranger passing us in the street or a casual observer might. Dressed, in the black jeans, biker boots and t-shirt that – momentarily at least – he had on last night, along with the invisible, yet more comfortable addition of both boxers and socks, as well as a loose grey shirt courtesy of the rapidly depleting stash of clean clothing in my bag, he pretty much just looks like someone you'd hardly pay any attention to. Ignoring the paleness of his skin and the fact that he fairly clearly looks unwell, to anyone other than the most bored or observant passer-by he'd be just another man going about his business on the street. Watching him as we slowly walk along side by side, I can't, thanks to the sunglasses hiding both the wariness in his eyes and the dark shadows under them, see any reason for anyone to either pick him out of the crowd or even take any note of him and this pleases me. Not because I'm afraid of anyone from the club lurking around Pigalle and trying to take him back, but for Brandt himself. I don't want him to feel uncomfortable or as though he's being watched and, by blending in like this, I don't think he will be. He's just... part of the passing crowd.

As for whether anyone from La Fée Noir is slumming it in Pigalle and just happens to recognise him? Well, regardless of my fervent wish not to have to make a scene, let's just say that the Glock I have nestled in the small of my back would quickly put paid to any idea they had of trying to take him back and leave it at that. 

So, really, things are just about going as well as I could possibly hope them to be. We're en route to the doctor's, Brandt's walking along slowly yet steadily and, at the risk of giving him the impression that I'm in love with the sound of my own voice, I'm free to talk... at him... all in the name of him keeping focussed. 

“Look. About the doctor,” I murmur only half facetiously. “He's probably not as bad as he seems on paper, but... just let me apologise in advance for him anyway. His name's Bastien Poupard and once upon a time in the not... too... distant past he was a general practitioner of some note. His patients were all wealthy and he was frequently featured in the society pages rubbing shoulders with members of some of the best known families in Paris. Then, in the early 90's, he injured his knee in a skiing accident and became addicted to painkillers. Actually, make that... addicted to morphine that he was self-prescribing and which, while under the influence of, he misdiagnosed a patient who later died from something that could have otherwise been successfully treated if it had been caught in time. Now, needless to say the medical powers that be took a dim view of this and his license to act as a doctor was revoked in 1995.”

Shrugging as, mentally patting myself on the back for having been proven right in my thinking, Brandt half turns his head in order to check out whether I'm actually pulling his leg or not, I grin at him and give his shoulder a quick pat. “Hey. Don't look so worried. Before you decide that I'm taking you to see some unlicensed quack, let me assure you that after blowing all of his money on one retreat after another, Poupard got his qualifications back up scratch and was rewarded by the return of his license ten years ago. Instead of being able to return to his old life of style and money though, the only job he could get was here in Pigalle, tending to, and I don't want to beat around the bush or sugar coat things here, the underworld. And... By underworld I mean the drug addicts, and the wannabe or otherwise gang bangers, and the prostitutes and their pimps, and, you know... those... sort of people... Basically he's now the sort of... cash in hand... doctor who, if abortions were still illegal, would be doing a roaring trade. But! On the plus side, at least he has his qualifications back. That, and he was able to squeeze you in.”

Looking, although it's not that easy to say given the sunglasses, stoic silence, and currently far from extensive range of expressions he's so far shared with me, less than impressed at my tale, Brandt returns his gaze to directly in front of him and, undeterred, I push on with... wowing... him with my inability to shut up.

“In case you're wondering where I happened to stray across such a... gem... of a doctor,” I continue cheerfully, “it was by trawling through police records in search of a likely candidate. I wanted someone qualified, near by, and who wasn't going to ask any questions when I present you to him as my... uh... I'll get to that in a minute. So... Where was I? Ah. That's right. I wanted a doctor who had seen it all before and who, for the right amount of money, would just do what I wanted him to without wanting to know the... whys or the hows... And, as I searched through the police files online, there he was. Bastien Poupard, a once well respected doctor... who now happens to be the doctor the police turn to first if they're looking for a gang member sporting a gun shot wound...”

What's more, it's all true.

Poupard was a good doctor, then he became addicted to painkillers and royally fucked up the treatment of a patient, and now, in order to make a living, he looks after those he would have once considered as scum and, while he's at it, just happens to be a little too well known to local police.

All of which make him perfect for what I need him for. 

He'll accept the explanation, regardless of whether he actually believes it or – even cares – not, I give him, and, with blasé disinterest, he'll treat Brandt solely because of the handful of cash I place on his table, and that, in a nutshell, will be it. He won't ask questions or express doubt over my story and, it all pretty much just being par for the course as far he's concerned, the only thing he'll actually care about is my ability to pay him.

Again, so long as I keep thinking this and don't turn my thoughts to how he's actually going to handle Brandt, he's perfect.

Alternatively, as he's close by and ticks enough boxes, he'll do.

Reaching the end of the street, I turn to the right and, having the façade of our destination in sight, am about to continue towards it when I notice that Brandt's come to an abrupt, not to mention complete stop. Curious as to what's caused his sudden hesitation, I come to a stop myself and, already more alert than I was a moment ago, scan the street for anything of immediate interest. Although noticeably busier, with its two-way traffic, collection of small shops and at least four or five cafes with their tables on the pavement and number of people sitting at them enjoying their morning coffee, than the quiet, hardly used street that the flat's on, I can't see anything that I feel any urge to concern myself with and simply put Brandt's reaction down to suddenly finding himself out – of his private, protected comfort zone – in public. Not used to being out in daylight and surrounded by strangers just going about their day to day lives, he's probably as worried about what they might think when they look at him as he is about one of them recognising him and trying to take him back to the club.

And, as with everything once I stop to think about it, I get it. Everything in his life at the moment is one new cause for doubt – 'Does he want me to...?' 'Is he really who he says he is?' 'Am I seriously safe or is this just some sort of game to him?' 'What if...?' 'If I don't do what he wants will he punish me?' – after another and it would do me good to actually remember this instead of just blundering along and expecting him to cope with everything I'm throwing at him. Yes, it's in his best interests, but that doesn't mean for a second that I can simply take his... willingness to go along with things... for granted. It's one thing to hold it together in front of the one person you're wanting to find it in yourself to trust, and another thing entirely to present a brave face to the big bad world you've so long been apart from. He was, after all – and this is the one thing I should never be allowed to forget in my pursuit of... just rushing through all of this as quickly as I can possibly manage – held captive for six months and subjected to unspeakable acts of degradation. 

Or, to put it another, far more blunt way, it's nothing short of remarkable that he's even out of bed, let alone out and about with me less than twelve hours after having been rescued. 

He...

Actually, he's just... remarkable. Period.

Instead of just giving up and folding in on himself, he's here and, regardless of what his reasons – fear, determination, desire to please – might be, he's fighting.

And, although it's both early days and not as though I really know the man, I think I might just admire him a little.

“All these people?” I murmur, shifting closer to Brandt as I gesture around the street. “They're no more interested in you than you need to be in them. I know this is all probably something of a shock to your system, but it's okay, it really is. You're safe with me and none of this is worth getting concerned over.” Pausing, I look around to check that no one's watching before picking up his hand and pressing it against the small of my back so that he can feel the familiar shape of the gun safely hidden beneath my shirt. “I don't want to have to use it, but it's there if we need it for any reason,” I add in a whisper as, letting go of his hand, I place mine around his elbow and slowly turn him around so that he's facing in the direction we're needing to go in. “Now... See that butcher shop about two hundred or so metres along the street and how it's on the corner of an alleyway? Well, that's where we're going. Poupard has his makeshift surgery above the butcher's and, as you can see, we're almost there and just have a short distance to go.”

Not really feeling as though there's anything more I need to add on this particular subject, I keep my hand curled around Brandt's elbow and, walking on his left so that he can stay close to the buildings, guide him along the street to the alleyway. Despite his hesitation of only a few short moments ago, he allows this easily enough and, having always planned to leave it until the last minute, I wait until we're passing the butcher shop and its window full of hanging animal carcasses and am about to turn into the alleyway to hit him with the final... snippet... of information pertaining to our... outing.

“Uh... While I don't actually like this any more than you're going to,” I state, coming to a stop just inside the dingy and stereotyped to the extreme – as in, complete with a number of dumpster bins, stray cats, and a couple of homeless people passed out under decrepit looking structures made out of cardboard – alleyway, “the story I fed Poupard for wanting to use his services is...” Shrugging, I position myself directly in front of Brandt and, although I can't see them through the darkened lenses of his sunglasses – force myself to look him in the eye. “Look. Not knowing how else to... explain... your condition, I told him... uh... that, well, I'm basically your pimp and that the reason you're... the way you are is because a client actually kidnapped you and I've only just managed to get you back. I...” Trailing off, I give another shrug and start to move towards the dirty blue door that looks as though it should be leading into the back of the butcher's. “I know it's pretty crap, and if you must know I'm not looking forward to playing the role anymore than I suspect you are, but... Wanting to remain firmly off the grid, I not only had to find a doctor who'd turn a blind eye to wanting to know the truth instead of just taking you to a hospital like I know that I probably should, but I also had to come up with a believable enough... excuse... for you being like this. So... I'm sorry, I really am, but it just has to be...”

Pitifully relieved that I can't actually see Brandt's eyes and can simply kid myself as to being in blissful ignorance in regards to what he has to be thinking, I open the door and gesture him in to a dimly lit and quite frankly foul smelling stairwell. Almost gagging as I breathe in the twin aromas of urine and cigarette smoke, I grab Brandt's hand and, at a speed he's probably not really capable of, drag him quickly up the stairs and onto an equally as dark and stinky landing. As if the smell of the place wasn't... welcoming... enough, the only attempt at décor comes from three mismatched and rickety looking chairs that give every impression of being circa 1950 and a handwritten sign that declares – 'If you bleed on it, you clean it. No exceptions.' I'm hardly, even though I'm fairly certain Brandt's thinking it too, going to say it, but I've actually been in prison cells that have been nicer looking that Poupard's... waiting room and can only hope that the room he uses to conduct his consultations in is, if not a hell of a lot better, then at the very least is a lot... cleaner.

“Think positive thoughts,” I mutter drily as, spotting the once-white – and now a far from uniform light brown colour – door Poupard had told me to knock on once we'd arrived, I tug Brandt over to it and hammer forcefully on the frail, aged wood. “It can only get better, right?”

Or – as the door is wrenched open and Poupard materialises in front of us – not, as the case may be.

Brilliant.

Seriously. Just fucking brilliant.

I want to help Brandt so, what do I do, I drag him to see a doctor who looks for all the world like an alcoholic version of Lurch from the Addams Family. Just... Fuck. With a friend like me he doesn't even need enemies. 

Tall, but it's hard to estimate his true height as he's so hunched over, the doctor has wispy, pale blond hair, a sallow, pockmarked complexion, watery brown eyes and a bulbous nose that dominates the truly unattractive mess of his face. To make matters just that tiny bit worse, he's wearing a stained pair of camouflage cargo pants and a red t-shirt that barely stretches to cover the considerable bulk of his stomach. Oh... And given the yellow staining on the tips of his fingers, I think it's fairly safe to say he's the reason behind the all pervading stench of nicotine that's hanging heavily in the air.

“You Matthew?” Poupard grunts in French as he looks past me and fixes his bloodshot gaze on his – prey – patient as, holding it together quite well given that he now knows what he's facing, Brandt presses up against my side.

“I am,” I confirm, deliberately replying in English, not only because I know for a fact Poupard, given that he once studied in London, is fluent in it himself, but also because part of my cover story is that I'm British myself and had to actually come over from the UK to retrieve my... piece of errant property.

“And this is?” Poupard demands in perfect English as, all but shoving me out of the way, he steps out of the room and pokes Brandt in the chest. “Meh. Never mind,” he adds with a disinterested shrug as, yanking off both Brandt's sunglasses and cap and shoving them at me, he drags him in to the room. “As so many of these... creatures... do not even have a name, it is not something that I have any use for knowing anyway.” Glancing over his shoulder, he frowns and, with both a snort and an impatient wave of his hand, gestures that I need to come too. “Come, come. We do not have all day.”

“No. We don't,” I mutter, mirroring Poupard's brusque attitude as I stomp into the room and, just for good measure, slam the door shut behind me. While no more in danger of winning any style awards than the landing, his consulting room is at the very least clean, more or less free of the smell of cigarette smoke and, layout wise, not that much different to basic doctor's rooms the world over. There's an ugly brown desk, complete with an outdated computer, numerous take-away coffee cups and paper strewn everywhere, taking pride of place by the door, while an ancient looking hospital bed covered with a stained sheet is taking up the space along the back wall and a chair, sourced, I would suspect, at the same time as the ones on the landing, sits in the corner to the right of the desk. Poupard's qualifications hang, laminated as opposed to framed, above the bed and, apart from a rusty filing cabinet in front of the desk and a small trolley on wheels with his instruments laid out on it, that's pretty much it. No curtains separate the bed from the rest of the room and, with a sinking feeling, I take this to mean that the concept of privacy basically means nothing to him.

Grimacing, and Poupard can make of that what he will, I jam the cap and sunglasses under my arm and pull a wad of euros out of my pocket. “Like you, I do not have all day,” I state flatly as I peel off five one hundred euro notes and throw them down on to his desk. “Please.” Gesturing at Brandt as he stands, once again looking lost and with his gaze fixed on the floor, I flop down into the chair and give Poupard a narrow eyed look of impatience. “I would assume, yes, that you know what to do?”

“Check your... property... over so that you may know when he is capable of once more earning his keep,” Poupard retorts without so much as a hint of irony as he looks Brandt up and down. “Already I can tell you that I have seen far worse. This one, he at least is on his feet,” he mutters, walking over to the bed and, with a cold, bleary eyed look at Brandt, patting the mattress. “You. Strip and come here.”

Just like that.

Strip and come here. Just like you'd talk to a dog. Sit. Fetch. Heel. Beg...

… Strip. Bend over. Open your mouth. Take it.

Boy. Slave. Object.

I knew that it would have to come to this, that in order to have a proper physical performed on him Brandt would have to strip off and once again be subjected to the feel of invasive feel hands he didn't want touching him, but...

I just didn't think I'd have to bear witness to it, that's all. Simply knowing that it was taking place was, or so I'd thought, going to be bad enough, but this – not, however, that I could any more leave him alone with this sad excuse for a doctor than I could click my fingers and disappear out of here in a puff of smoke – is far, far worse.

Brandt, to both his credit and to my growing admiration, simply does as ordered though and, his blank expression giving away nothing as usual, he quickly removes his clothes and places them in a neat pile on the floor before walking over to the bed and taking a seat on the edge of it. Not feeling any great urge – especially seeing that if history is anything to go by I'll only discover yet another injury or scar that, somehow, God alone knows how, I hadn't even noticed before – to gaze at his naked body, I pull my phone out of my pocket and put on a bit of a show of giving it my undivided attention. Poupard, for all that I care, can read what he likes in to my apparent disinterest. Seen it all before, don't like being reminded of the state he's in and how much money it's effectively losing me, don't give a fuck and am finding the entire sorry affair to be nothing more than an inconvenience, just... Whatever. I know that he's meant to be my... property... but I'll be damned if I'm just going to sit here and watch his check up as though it was either entertaining or, worse, titillating.

“He is well trained, I will give him that,” Poupard states just that bit begrudgingly as – to my decided relief – he pulls on a pair of latex gloves. “Or perhaps my compliment should be directed at both you and your training?”

“As he has already lost me enough money, I'm here to get him checked out, not to talk,” I reply without looking up from my phone. “So, please, just get on with it.”

“As you wish,” Poupard retorts snidely as, no doubt simply for my benefit, he makes a point of snapping the latex of the glove against his wrist. “Do you wish for a written report, or will a simple verbal one suffice?”

“Given that I hardly keep a file on him,” I respond, looking up just long enough to scowl at the doctor before once again returning my attention to my – ever-so-fascinating – phone, “just talk me through it as you go. Medicine or prescription wise, should he require anything I'm assuming that you can sort it, yes?”

“Of course. This is a full service that I offer here.”

“Good. So get on with it.”

Seriously. Just get on with it already. Do what you have to do so that Brandt can put his clothes back on and we can get the fuck out of here.

Having, not that I can exactly blame him, written me off as an arrogant prick, Poupard doesn't waste any breath on attempting to make small talk with me and simply begins his examination. Although I don't – I... can't – watch, I stop fiddling with my phone and, letting it power off, listen closely to every word that slips past his lips.

“Slight signs of being both malnourished and a little dehydrated. But... Really, this is of no great concern and can easily enough be remedied.”

“The good news is that I can see no signs of tearing, but... the bad news is that these cuts on his back run the risk of becoming infected if they are not both carefully monitored and treated. Incidentally, although you are not paying me to talk, I feel as though I must say that the man who did this to him is a barbarian who does not deserve to call himself a master. You do not, you... never... wield the whip to make such deep, lasting cuts.”

“When all is said and done he, it has to be said, is in quite reasonable condition. I am not able to see any sign of disease and think, with both rest, sustenance, and the proper treatment of his back, that it should not take all that long before he is once again good to go.”

“Of course, and I would be thinking that you would be aware of this yourself already, he has been kept in a constant state of low sedation and, first things being first, will need to work whatever he has been given out of his system. Sadly, without a blood test, and I do not have the capabilities for that myself, I will not be able to tell you what exactly they have used on him, but unless he has shown no signs of recovery within, say, a week, I do not think this should be of any concern. His body will go into withdrawal and, yes, he will be weak and ill for a few days, but that should simply be that.”

“I will write you a prescription for both a broad spectrum antibiotic for no other real reason than it will do him no harm and a specific ointment for the wounds on his back. These, plus some anti-emetics, a strong dose of multi-vitamins, which I will also write down for you, and plenty of water should be all that is required to have him up and earning his keep again.”

Reassured by everything that the doctor's saying, I mentally pat myself on the back for having been more or less correct in my assessment of Brandt's condition and, thinking that it – this ordeal – has to be coming to an end, am in the process of returning my phone to my pocket when it gradually dawns on me that Poupard is no longer speaking. Immediately suspicious as to why this is suddenly the case, I jerk my head up, gaze across at the bed, and...

See red.

Bastard!

I just don't believe it. The mother fucking, opportunistic bastard has his hand between Brandt's legs and there's just no way what he's doing to him can be classed as part of his examination.

Slipping instantly into... react first, possibly think about things second... mode, I jump to my feet and, as the cap and sunglasses that had been sitting on my lap fall to the floor, pull the Glock out from its hiding spot under my shirt and, with two quick strides across the room, press the muzzle against the back of Poupard's head. “Whatever it is you think you're doing,” I snarl, “it stops now.”

Pouting, which in itself is yet another image I never wanted to see and will probably never be truly rid of, Poupard glances over his shoulder at me and, as he both slowly and lingeringly pulls his hand away from Brandt's flaccid cock, shrugs. “I offer you a discount for my time if you could find it in yourself to allow me ten minutes with him,” he murmurs hopefully. “As he is clean, I...”

“And I'm going to offer you the chance to keep your sorry excuse for a brain in your head if you back the fuck away from him right now and just go and write out the prescription,” I state coldly as, not wanting him to make the mistake of thinking that I'm joking, I arm the gun and push it just that bit harder against his skull. “Oh. And don't for a moment think that I wouldn't.”

“But he is just...”

“What he is... is mine,” I interrupt, glaring at the doctor as, pulling the Glock back, I use it to gesture towards his desk. “Do you hear me? Mine. And, having now done what I asked you to do, I don't want you fucking touching him!”

Shrugging again, Poupard gives me a blatantly unbothered look and begins to walk over to his desk. “As you wish.”

“Damn right it's as I fucking wish,” I retort as, knowing that I can't falter now and have to keep the act up, I scoop up all of Brandt's clothing from the floor and throw them on to the bed next to him. Paler than ever and with a faint pink flush of either shame or embarrassment staining his cheeks, he actually flinches as all the pieces rain down on to the bed and in that exact moment I can't quite work out who I hate more. Poupard, for having been the last in a long line of men to molest him, or me, for having placed him in the situation in the first place. I still stand by my idea of it being the right, the best even, thing to do, but...

The road to hell being paved with good intentions had nothing on it...

“As for you,” I hiss, jabbing an accusing finger in Brandt's direction. “Put your fucking clothes on and stop giving it away for nothing. Honestly! Keep up this sort of behaviour and I'm going to wash my fucking hands of you.” Quickly spinning around before I can see how he reacts to having been yelled at, I stalk across to the desk and lean over Poupard as, on a piece of scrap paper that looks as though it's had half a cup of coffee spilt over it, he writes out his list of medicines and vitamins. I don't, even though I know that I've made my point now, put the gun away and just hold it loosely in my hand to remind him that, essentially, I'm the one in charge here.

“Here.” Shoving the paper at me, Poupard stands up and walks over to the door. “This is everything that I believe you will need,” he mutters, opening the door and pointedly looking out on to the landing. “Take it to the pharmacy down the street, it is the one next to a sex shop called Le Chat Rose, and make sure that you hand it to Philippe. It will come at a cost, but he will ensure that you receive everything you require.”

“Then I thank you for your time,” I reply, calmly returning the gun to the waistband of my jeans as I glance over at Brandt and, finding him not only dressed but with his cap and sunglasses already on as well, hold my hand out towards him. “Come on, you. Let's get out of here.”

Looking relieved that we're about to leave him in – bullet-free – peace, Poupard hurries over to Brandt and, grabbing him by the arm, all but propels him out the door. “I would appreciate it if you did not return,” he states, giving me a defiant look as, shrugging, I flash him a polite smile and stroll out onto the landing. “I am a doctor, a good doctor, and...”

“And tell it to someone who cares,” I murmur, cutting him off as, still smiling, I reach behind me and, beating Poupard to it, pull the door shut. “I...” Taking a deep breath, I turn to Brandt and, not yet knowing what to say to him, lamely shake my head before starting down the stairs. Following me, just as I knew that he would, I wait until we're back outside in the fresh – well, as this is Paris we're talking about here, make that pretty much free from the scent of cigarettes and urine – air and nearing the corner of the butcher's shop before coming to a stop and turning to face him.

“I... I know I say this all the time and, hey, it wouldn't surprise me if you don't even believe it,” I murmur, hating how, now that we're not moving, he instinctively tries to hide himself in the shadow of the building by pressing himself up against the wall, “but... I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I let that bastard touch you like that because I wasn't paying enough attention, and... I'm just sorry. About everything. I made you go in there and I... I blame myself for...” Trailing off, I watch as Brandt gives the most smallest of shrugs and, be it rightly or wrongly, translate his seemingly voluntary response to my apologetic ramble to mean that... It doesn't matter, that, being used to it anyway, he's... okay with it.

And, again, I see red.

What? No!” I declare adamantly, taking Brandt's cold hand in mine and squeezing it. “Of course it matters and, no, it's not okay. In fact, it's far from being fucking okay. You shouldn't have had to have gone through that and, I know I can't do anything about it... or any of it... now, but I'm sorry. I let you down, and I...” Releasing his hand, I sigh and start to move towards the street. “I'm just sorry and... once we're back in the flat after having gone to the pharmacy you... you can stay there until you're ready to leave it yourself. I won't, health pertaining, force you into going anywhere again. So... Please... Let's get moving so that we can just get this over and done with...”

Stepping out onto the street, I see that it's a lot busier than it was only twenty minutes ago and, knowing that Brandt's going to like being surrounded by this many people even less than he did before we went in to the doctor's, turn back around and flash him an encouraging smile. “As there's more people around than there was earlier,” I state, holding my right hand out to him, “you're welcome to take my hand if you think it will help. You don't have to, of course, but...” The rest of my offer being rendered immediately redundant by Brandt walking up to me and closing his hand around mine, I simply nod and lead him out on to the street.

It's only a small thing, but his willingness to hold my hand, and I deliberately worded it the way that I did so that it would be entirely his decision and not just a knee-jerk reaction to a barked – 'take my hand!' – order, surely has to be viewed as another positive. A bit like the tiny whimper, which in itself wasn't good, of course, but at the same time confirmed that there doesn't appear to be anything wrong with his vocal chords, he gave in reaction to the bright sunlight outside the flat, and the way he responded with a shrug only a few moment's ago. He's neither healthy nor happy, but he's definitely in there and he's definitely fighting.

“Did you hear the name of the sex shop that the pharmacy's next to?” I query, reverting to the idea of talking simply to keep Brandt focussed as, clutching my hand tightly, we walk along the street. “Le Chat Rose. Just... What is it about this lot and their stupid names, huh? The Green Fairy, The Black Fairy, and now... The Pink Cat. Or maybe it's meant more to translate as The Pink Pussy? Either way, it's not good. And... Look.” Groaning as Le Chat Rose, complete with a hot pink version my favourite, nasty looking 'Chat Noir' cat painted on its door, looms into view, I shake my head and can't help but laugh. “It's even worse than I expected it to be. Just... And to think Paris is supposed to be known for its elegance and culture. I... Words. They very nearly fail me.”

Spotting the far less surreal and far more mundane in appearance pharmacy next to the truly unfortunate sex shop, I laugh again, this time not only at the far from sexy looking 'Chat Rose' but at my apparent new found – love for the sound of my own voice – ability to just talk and talk and talk, and lead Brandt up to the door. Opening it, I gesture him inside and, as the door glides slowly shut behind us, just take a few seconds to glance around and get a feel for the place. Unlike Poupard's revolting excuse for a consulting suite and the unfortunately feline themed shop next door, the pharmacy just looks like a pharmacy. A white serving counter separates the dispensary from the rest of the shop, and the neatly displayed items on the rows of shelving don't look, their unfamiliar names and the fact they're covered in French writing notwithstanding, greatly different to what you might find in a pharmacy in either London or Dallas. 

The same can pretty much be said for the few customers lurking around in the store. An elderly couple in matching grey woollen cardigans stand in front of a large display of toothbrushes and, as they frown, point, and mumble to themselves, give every impression of being somewhat amazed – or, alternatively, dismayed – by the selection available to them to choose from. Then there are the two teenage boys in their tedious uniform of low hanging jeans worn without belts – all the better to show an uninterested world the label emblazoned on the elastic of their underpants – and white Hollister t-shirts. Standing by the shelf with the condoms on it, they keep looking surreptitiously at both each other and around the rest of the shop as they wait for just the right amount of either stupidity or courage to shove a box in their pocket and make a run for it. They're just so obvious in their quest – to both grow a pair and join the criminal ranks – that I almost feel sorry for them. Even if they succeed and burst through the door with their all important prize of a box of condoms providing a reassuring weight in their pocket, they're just so clueless and hesitant that their planned life of crime is only ever going to end up with them being behind bars. If they're not caught today then it will be only a matter of time.

Biting back the urge to put paid to their idea of shoplifting right here and now by – basically, scaring the crap out of them – waving my gun at the teenagers, I notice a number of blue plastic chairs by the wall near the counter that have clearly been placed there for people to sit on as they wait for their prescriptions to be filled and start to walk Brandt over to them. Neither the elderly couple nor the too-tentative-for-words teenagers holding either any interest or concern for him, he trails after me and, releasing my hand, takes a seat on the chair closest to the door before I've so much as opened my mouth to suggest that's what he might like to do while I go up to the counter.

Concerned that all of this is taking more out of him than he wants to let on, I make a point of not – coming over all protective by either staring at him too closely or asking questions that I know full well he isn't going to answer anyway – making any sort of issue out of his sudden willingness to sit down and simply walk up to the counter. Monsieur and Madame Grey Cardigan, having finally made the all important decision over what toothbrush to buy, reach the counter just before I do and, as I pull Poupard's piece of paper out of my pocket, this actually works in my favour as they're served by a friendly looking female pharmacist who greets them with a warm smile while I'm left with a surly looking man who just happens to have the name Philippe written on the pocket of his white coat.

“Poupard said that you would see me right,” I state in French as, refusing to be intimidated by Philippe's dead-from-the-knees-up expression of loathing for, I suspect, life in general, I flash him the brightest smile that I can manage and hold out the paper.

Snatching Poupard's list from me, he glances down at it, shrugs, and, in a voice that's as dour as the rest of him, grunts out a truly exorbitant price of three hundred euros. 

Although I know that he's ripping me off and, even if he has to give a percentage to Poupard, is probably making at least an eighty-percent profit margin for himself, I don't argue and just hand the cash over with a shrug of my own. It's not as though I can't afford it and, most importantly, I just want to get the drugs and be on our way. Like Poupard before him, I'm never going to have to see the greatly charm-free Philippe again and don't see any reason to rock the boat. I'll over pay, he'll give me my items, and then we'll both go our separate ways never to meet again. And, to be perfectly frank, I just don't even care. He has something I need, and I'll pay for it. End of story.

“Ten minutes,” Philippe mutters as he begins to walk into the dispensary. “You will have your items in ten minutes.”

“Looking forward to it,” I reply in a flat tone of my own as, turning around, I lean against the counter and survey the pharmacy. Both the elderly couple and their freshly purchased toothbrushes, and the teenagers with or without a pocket full of condoms, having left the store while I was conducting my business with Philippe, Brandt and I are now the only customers and, not needing anything to spook him, I hope that this remains the case for the next ten minutes. Noticing a smallish, glass doored refrigerator containing a selection of drinks and snacks against the wall to my left, I walk over to it and, not wanting to miss any opportunity to make Brandt drink that I can, grab a bottle of water. I also, for no specific reason other than on a sheer whim, take a Mars Bar off the shelf before shutting the door and returning to the counter to pay the woman for them. This done, I walk over to Brandt and take a seat in the chair next to him.

“Here.” After loosening the lid, I hand him the bottle of water and watch as almost looking relieved – it's hard, what with the sunglasses still covering his eyes and his deceptively blank expression to know for sure, but I'm fairly certain I saw a flicker of... something... as he took it from me – he takes a long, seemingly much needed drink. “Just a few minutes more and then we'll be on our way back to the flat,” I murmur, waiting until he's returned the lid to the bottle before placing the Mars Bar on his knee. “I don't know if you're hungry, or even if you like chocolate, but... Here. I thought you could possibly do with a snack.”

Sitting up straight, Brandt half reaches for the chocolate bar before, either thinking better of it or assuming that I'm just messing with his head and he can't actually have it at all, jerking his hand back and lowering his head. His reaction – 'I'd like it, but it has to be a trick... and I don't want to do the wrong thing' – being yet another award winning example of the job his fucking captors did on him, I sigh softly and, picking the Mars Bar back up, tear open the wrapper. “If you want it, it's yours,” I state, returning it to his knee as, without waiting to see what he does, I stand up and begin to walk back over to the counter. I could, of course, try to reiterate that it's okay, that I'm not going to hurt or taunt him, and that I really do just want him to do whatever he feels most comfortable doing, but, really, there's close to no point. I've said it all before and Brandt just has to come to accept it as fact in his own time. I can't, and this is simply another one of those things I have to accept and work through, do anything more than I'm already doing, and nor can I hurry him.

Deliberately making a point of keeping my back to Brandt, I drum my fingers on the counter top and, by continually looking at my watch, feign impatience until Philippe, with a white paper bag in his hand, returns from the dispensary. “I told you ten minutes,” he complains, dropping the bag on the counter and shoving it at me.

“Must have just been a... long... ten minutes then,” I retort, picking the bag up and, solely in the hope of inciting more annoyance in him, giving Philippe a small wave over my shoulder as I walk up to Brandt and hold my hand out towards him. “Come on. It's time to get out of here,” I state, hiding my delight at the fact the Mars Bar now has a couple of bite marks out of it behind a neutral expression. “If you'd like to give me the water I can put it in the bag and you'll be left with...” Falling silent as, doing just that, he places the bottle in my hand before standing up and beginning to move towards the door, I allow myself a brief, relieved smile and follow him out onto the street. “So...” Dropping the bottle into my bag, I once again hold my hand out to Brandt and wait to see if he'll take it. “You don't have to, of course, but if you'd like...” My smile broadening as he places his hand in mine, I give it a quick squeeze and begin to walk off. “Having had enough of an adventure for one morning, let's just go back to the flat and put it all behind us.”

Deciding that as Brandt has the Mars Bar to both focus on – and I think, given how slowly he's eating it, savour – as we walk, I don't bother trying to come up with any idle chatter this time and we simply make our way back to the flat in, or so I hope, comfortable enough silence. His morning – or, hour, as it happens to be – out having clearly drained him, Brandt walks a lot more slowly than he did on his way to Poupard's and, because of this, it takes close to fifteen minutes to reach the flat. I don't try to hurry him though, or even ask if he'd like me to go and get the car, because I think, simply for his own levels of confidence, he has to push on for long as he's physically capable of. It's slow going but as, I unlock the door and we walk inside, I don't regret having let him do it.

Well, that is, I... hadn't... been regretting letting him push himself through it. Now, however, as he takes his cap and sunglasses off and I see both the thin sheen of sweat covering his face and just how drawn he looks...

… Let's just say that I may not have been in the right after all.

Taking the cap, sunglasses, and the empty Mars Bar wrapper from Brandt, I try not to grimace at the sight of him and, knowing that I once again have to take charge, gesture towards the bedroom. “How about you go and put your pyjamas back on while I get another bottle of water and have a quick look over the medicine Poupard prescribed, yeah?” I murmur as, looking as though he's at increasing risk of just slumping down on to the floor, Brandt slowly heads off towards the bedroom. 

“Uh... And, sorry, it's going to have to be the same pyjamas you wore last night. Don't worry though, I'll order some new ones online this afternoon and have them delivered,” I add, walking into the kitchenette and dropping everything onto the table on my way past as I continue over to the fridge. Opening the door, I grab a bottle of water, make a mental note to add groceries to the list of things I need to order online, and return to the table. Tipping the contents of the bag out over the top of the table, I quickly scan over the instructions listed on the medication – antibiotics to be taken with food, anti-emetic injection to be given at the first sign of nausea, ointment to be applied four times a day, vitamins to be taken... whenever – before picking up what I need and making my way into the bedroom. 

Already clad in his pyjamas and looking somewhat alarmingly like death warmed up, Brandt sits on the edge of the mattress and, clearly exhausted, he doesn't even look up as I crouch down in front of him. “Just a few minutes more and you'll be in bed,” I state, giving his knee a pat as I hold both the water and the pills out to him. “Take these... and... uh... I'm working on the assumption here that a Mars Bar counts as food... and after I've applied some of the ointment on to your back I'll leave you in peace to get some sleep.”

Dutifully taking the antibiotic and vitamin pills from me, Brandt swallows them with a mouthful of water before, almost trembling from exertion, swivelling around and allowing me access to his back. Shifting on to the mattress next to him, I carefully roll the back of his t-shirt up and, all the time thinking of anything – Chat Noir print above the bed? That'll do just fine – that comes to mind other than just how he happened to get the hideous welts that mar his back – very gently apply some of the ointment on to his wounds. Although I try not to hurt him, he still flinches at my touch and, loathing being the cause of his pain, I actually sigh in relief when I've finished and have his t-shirt back – covering the mess – in place. “Sorry. But... Not wanting it to get any worse, it's going to have to happen four times a day. Uh... Hopefully it'll be fast acting though...”

Sighing again, I stand up and help a very weak Brandt into bed. Still covered in a thin veil of sweat and very dithery, I know that the drugs in his system are beginning to work their way out and that he's in the early signs of withdrawal. What I also know is that neither of us are going to much enjoy what's coming and that we're both going to have to be strong. Brandt, because, he simply has to make it through to the other side, and, me...

Because I've got to throw everything I've got in to making sure that he does.

~*~*~*~


	5. Chapter 5

~*~*~*~

An annoying vibrating sensation emanating from my back pocket letting me know that Benji still hasn't got the hint and given up on trying to get through to me, I sigh and, more for reasons of actually wanting something from him than suddenly deciding to play nice, pull the iPhone out and swipe my finger across the screen to answer the call.

“Hunt,” I mutter unenthusiastically as, despite having nothing better to do with my time, having to have this conversation with Benji is just about the last thing that I feel like doing. Once I start to explain things to him he'll try to talk all over the top of me, and, when he does let me speak he'll no doubt ask questions that I just won't have answers for, and... Yeah. It's just not going to be any great fun for either of us.

“Ethan!” Benji exclaims not only far more enthusiastically than I greeted him, but also with a sigh of heartfelt relief as well. “Thank God you picked up! I... Oh! And before you have a go at me for using your name, it's okay. I... I've got it covered.”

“You have?” I query drily as I get up from the table and shift over to the sofa, my current – given the amount of time I've been taking up space on it – home away from home.

“I have,” he confirms. “You see, I'm on my lunch break and, instead of just going to the cafeteria like normal I've gone for a walk in Bartholdi Park. Smart, huh? I'm using the phone you gave me and I'm not being monitored.”

“That is, you're not being monitored... currently,” I reply, resting my feet on the coffee-table as, glancing at my watch, I note with no particular surprise that it's coming up to seven in the evening and this, in turn, means I've been stuck inside the flat playing the role of a somewhat frazzled nursemaid for thirty-four hours already. Oh... And, while I'm at it, that fifty-six hours have passed since I missed my flight and disappeared from the IMF radar.

“Huh? What's that supposed to mean? Am I doing something wrong by...”

“It depends on your definition of wrong. If you're happy to continue helping a friend and don't mind a little heat coming down on you from above, then, no. You're not doing anything wrong. If, however, you're blindly loyal to the Powers That Be and are willing to put your entire trust in them always being right, then... It's your call, Benji. If you're not comfortable with this arrangement then speak up and I'll pull the plug right here and now.”

“Ethan? What are you talking about? Of course I want to help you, but... Are you saying that I might get into trouble for it?”

“Think about it. Although I should have returned to D.C. two days ago, I'm off the grid and no one knows what I'm up to.”

“Well... There is that, of course. The Secretary's pretty pissed, by the way, but I think, for the time being at least, that he's trying to make excuses to the Director on your behalf in order to give you time to bring yourself in.”

“I hope he's not holding his breath in respect to this actually happening any time soon,” I respond flatly. “Look, Benji. I make no apologies for what I'm doing as I do honestly believe it to be both important and for the greater good of IMF, but... This is just the way that I have to do it. I can't have any links to IMF and I have to remain one-hundred percent off the grid. Now... Because of this, there's a pretty good chance the spotlight might be turned on to you because they know, officially and up until now at least, that we've been working together. I don't, and you've got to believe me here, want to get you into trouble and will understand if you want to just throw that phone out and call it quits, but... If you're going to continue down this path I've got to have your complete loyalty as the stakes are just too high.”

“I... Ethan, I... Of course I'm loyal to you, but... IMF. My career...”

Realising that I'm hardly being fair on Benji by – scaring him – skirting around the issue like I am, I cut him off mid... hesitant babble... by murmuring, “Sorry... As it's not the sort of question that can be answered without knowing more of the big picture, let me bring you a bit more up to speed.”

“Is just knowing this going to be enough to put me in an... awkward situation?” Benji asks. “I mean, I want to know, of course I do, but... But what if they torture me and it just comes out? I don't want to let you down or...”

“They won't torture you,” I interrupt. “They'll question you, and keep you under constant surveillance by bugging all your devices, but that'll probably be the worst of it. Not having any reason to feel under threat, they'll just want to know what I'm up to, that's all, and if they think that they can find out through you, then... that's where they'll focus their attention.”

“What about my career though?”

“If this goes wrong or I'm proven wrong and you were seen to side with me, then, sorry, Benji, your career will probably be over,” I reply, choosing truth over bullshit in this instance because I want him to think very carefully before giving me his answer. Without Benji and his insider access to records and intel denied to me, I'll be be pretty much dead in the water and in desperate need of a new, far more labour intensive plan. That much is a given. While I'm prepared to commit career suicide for my ideals though, I don't expect Benji to just blindly follow me and, again, want him to be fully aware of what it is I'm asking of him.

“Thanks for being... uh... honest with me,” Benji sighs after a moment's contemplative silence. “But... Curiosity killing the cat and all that. You wouldn't be putting yourself in the firing line without good reason, so... Go on. Hit me with what you feel comfortable telling me and I'll make my decision when you've finished.”

“You're aware that if it's no, and, again, I want you to know that I'll respect your decision if that's the case, this will be the last time we talk and I really will disappear for good?”

“Of course. If it's no I'll destroy the SIM card before throwing the phone out and... uh... trying my hardest to forget we'd ever even had this conversation.”

“Okay. Fine...” Here goes nothing. “I don't know if you remember, but six months ago, an agent died in a car explosion in Germany. Now...”

“Will.”

“Sorry?”

“The agent, his name was Will. Well, William Brandt to be exact, but I always just knew him as Will.”

“You... knew him?” I query, slightly taken aback by Benji's response but, at the same time, thinking that my odds of keeping him on my side have probably just grown in size.

“I did,” Benji responds just a little bit wistfully. “Whenever he had to come into the tech department he'd always make the time to come over to talk to me. It didn't even matter if he was there to see someone else as he'd still seek me out to say hello. He... In that respect he was a bit like you in that he never treated me like just another tech geek with no people skills and an unhealthy relationship with their computer and... and I always liked talking to him.” Pausing, he sniffs loudly and sighs. “I was gutted when he died.”

“Benji...”

“You know something? We'd even sometimes have lunch together in the cafeteria. He'd always come over if he saw me, and I knew that he'd welcome me if I joined him at the table he was sitting at. A lot of people were wary of him because he could swap from being out in the field to being back in the office as an analyst and this, for some reason, made them want to avoid him, but... I... I liked him, Ethan. I really did. He was my friend, and... and he was even...”

“Benji! Listen to me. Brandt...”

“This will probably sound stupid to you,” Benji continues breathlessly, talking over the top of me as though I'd never even opened my mouth, “but he was going to go and see the latest Star Trek movie with me when it came out. I know, I know. Tech geeks are all supposed to be Trekkies, but all the ones I work with are more Wars than Trek, you know, Star Wars instead of Star Trek and... uh... never the twain shall meet and all of that crap, and... Will... While I don't think he had much of a clue about what I was raving on about, he still said that he'd go with me, and... And because of what happened I still haven't seen it and I... I don't even know if I'll ever be able to bring myself to watch it now as it just reminds of me Will and...”

“Is it out on DVD yet?” I interrupt, using Benji's trick of simply talking all over the top of him.

“What?”

“The Star Trek movie you're going on about, has it been released on DVD?”

“Well... Yeah, it has,” Benji replies dubiously. “But what's that got to do with anything? Even if I was watching it from my own sofa I'd still be thinking about Will and I... I just can't do it.”

“Actually, I beg to differ.”

“Ethan? What are you talking about? I don't care about the stupid Star Trek movie. My friend's dead and...”

“He's not.”

“Sorry? What?”

“Brandt. He's not dead and, while I can't give you an exact date or anything, one of these days you'll still get to watch your movie with him.”

“But... No. He's dead,” he retorts stubbornly. “I don't know what game you're playing at, Ethan, but I have to say that I don't really appreciate it. I saw the photos of what was left of his hire car, and, dental records not lying, the body, or what was left of it, was his.”

“Dental records mightn't lie, but they can still be faked,” I murmur. “Trust me, Benji. William Brandt is alive and... uh... not overly well, but I'll get to that in a minute, and the reason I know this for a fact is because he's asleep in a bedroom only a few metres away from me.”

“But...”

“Remember how I needed access to the agent database without anyone being able to know what I was up to?”

“Of course. I sent you...”

“A to D of the database backup that dated to seven months ago.”

“Well, that's what you asked for...”

“I did. Now, think about... why... I might have asked for it.”

“You said you needed to confirm the identity of... Oh! A to D... Dating back seven months... Brandt! You wanted the database to confirm if it was Will!”

“I did, and... it was... The man I had my suspicions about, when I checked his prints against the database, was confirmed to be William Brandt.”

“But... I don't get it.”

“That makes two of us, Benji. He's alive though and the reason behind my disappearing act and all this secrecy is the fact that I think he may have been sold out by someone within IMF and, if this can be proven, I want to get the bastard.”

“But... Who? And... Uh... Why? And... Oh God, Ethan... Where's he been all of this time? We all thought he was dead, so no-one's been looking for him, and... Shit! I'm not going to like what it is you're going to tell me, am I?”

“As, without even ever having met Brandt before, I don't like it,” I reply quietly as I know the part of the conversation I've been dreading is finally upon us and that I just have to push on with it, “the answer is... No. You're not going to like it at all.”

“He... Uh...” Trailing off, Benji breathes deeply in an attempt to get his racing emotions back under control before, with yet another sigh, continuing. “Before you start, please tell me that he's going to be okay, yeah? I'm still struggling to come to terms with him still being alive and don't want to have just gotten my head around that to possibly lose him again.”

“He's alive and more or less physically in one piece, so... Although I obviously can't guarantee it, I can't see any reason for him not to pull through. He... strikes me as being quite strong and, from what little I've seen of him so far, he seems to be a fighter.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“Uh... While I'd love to let you talk to him, Benji, he... he's not talking at the moment and...”

“What do you mean he's not talking?”

“What do you think I mean by... he's not talking? Just... He's not talking, okay...”

“But...”

“Look... How about I tell you what I know, yeah?”

“Uh... Please. That... That'd probably be for the best.”

So, starting from the unlikely beginning of how a folder at La Fée Noir unexpectedly caught my attention, I tell Benji everything that I either know for a fact, or suspect, about what Brandt's been through and, all in the name of both honesty and wanting to keep him on side, I don't leave anything out. From his injuries, to just what it is I suspect he's had done to him and his current weak, very ill and silent state, I don't hold back and share the lot with Benji.

“And... now you basically know as much as I do,” I finish, quietly marvelling at how, for possibly the first time in his life, Benji didn't interrupted my tale once. Not to mention, if his stunned silence is anything to go by, the small fact of how he still doesn't quite seem to know what to say in response. “Again though, I'm sure he's going to be fine,” I continue, deciding to take pity on him by reiterating Brandt's current state in the hope of it penetrating through the heavy fog of shock he has to be feeling. “He's quite out of it at the moment, but that's mainly because of his body going through withdrawal symptoms and I can tell you that he already looks better this evening than he did this morning. His fever has already broken and, the anti-emetics thankfully doing their job, he's been able to keep down both his antibiotics and water since mid afternoon. Things... Benji, I'm not going to lie and say that things are going great, but... They're okay. Brandt's... okay. He's sick, and he has a long road ahead of him, but he's alive and I'm going to do everything in my power not to let him down.”

“Did you really mean what you said about never having met him?” Benji queries in a dull, very much un-Benji-like tone of voice.

“I did, yes.”

“Yet... You're prepared to possibly give up everything to help him?”

“Yes. I am.”

“But... Why? You don't know him. He... He's nothing to you.”

“He's not nothing,” I reply adamantly, offended, even though I know he only said it to see how I'd react, that Benji could even suggest such a thing. “He's an IMF agent who was horribly let down. He's also a man who didn't deserve all the shit that's happened to him and, having had him fall all but literally into my lap, I'm not going to rest until he's got his life back on track again and we've got the bastards that did this to him. Benji, I... I don't know him like you do, but nor do I have any intention of letting him down. Until he can stand on his own two feet and fight his own battles, he's my responsibility and I'll do whatever it takes to get him through this.”

“And it's as much for that reason as it is that Will's my friend that I'm pitching my tent in your camp,” Benji states matter-of-factly. “If you're prepared to fight this hard for someone you don't even know then the least that I can do is offer my... extremely limited... assistance. Just... Whatever you want, Ethan, or even think that I might be able to help with. Just let me know and, for both you and Will, I'll do my best to come through.”

“Are you sure? Benji, I know that he's your friend, but...”

“I'm sure. If there's any chance this was done to him by someone within IMF then... Then if it all goes to shit I'm not sure I want to keep working here anyway.”

“I'm hoping it doesn't come to that, but...”

“If it does, it does. Will, and... justice. That's all that matters here and, Ethan, I'm with you all the way. Just tell me what to do.”

“The last mission Brandt was working on,” I reply, taking Benji's willingness to help at face value and not wanting to make a big issue out of it, “the one that he was on in Germany when he was supposed to have been killed... Do you think you can get me copies of both the mission reports and all the intel relating to it?”

“Just leave it with me. When I've got it, do you just want it emailed?”

“That'd be great. Just...”

“Be careful. Yeah. I know, and... I will. It's no accident that I work in the tech department though and if I can't get these reports to you without anyone knowing then... uh... no-one can.”

“I know that, and I didn't mean...”

“I know you didn't. It's okay, Ethan. You've got a lot on your plate at the moment and I promise that I'll come through for you. For... both of you, actually. Oh... And, thank you for trusting me with this. When you finally answered my call I never, not in a million years, expected you to tell me that Will's still alive and that, even if it is only in a small way, I can help him, but... It just means a lot to me, okay, and I promise that I won't let either of you down.”

“I don't need to say...”

“That not a word of this is to be said to anyone? No. You don't. I already can't get what Will's been through out of my mind and, if anything, because I know him I want the bastard who did this even more than you do. Just...”

“Mmm?”

“Promise you'll take my calls in the future. I've been going out of my mind here wondering what you were up to.”

“I promise to take your calls, Benji,” I reply. “What's more, I also promise to keep you informed of any developments. I know I've been something of a lone wolf recently, but I've already come to rely on your assistance and am pleased to have you on my... uh... make that, on our... side.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you could probably sell ice to an Eskimo?” Benji mutters, laughing. “Sweet talk me all you like though as I'm all yours. Uh... I'd better get going back to the office though before any of those Star Wars geeks notice that I've been gone too long. So... Just keep an eye on your email and... I'll be talking to you, yeah?”

“You will, yes. Oh... And, Benji? Thank you.”

“No... I know you said that Will's too traumatised to talk at the moment, so I'll say it for him instead... Thank you. Thank you for both rescuing, and looking after him. You'll see, Ethan, Will's one of the good guys, he really is. I... I've got to go...” Clearly feeling a little choked up with emotion, Benji ends the call without another word.

Dropping the phone down onto the coffee-table, I stand up and, pretty much on autopilot as it's close to all the exercise I've been getting these last two days, walk over to the bedroom. Having been leaving the door only half shut, I'm able to sneak into the room without waking Brandt from his sprawled, dead-to-the-world and still rather sweaty slumber and, as he sleeps on, oblivious to my presence, find myself looking more and more forward to... actually getting to meet him. 

Not the slave, or the victim or patient, or even as just the source of information I feel in need of, but the actual man. Benji obviously adores him and thinks of him as one of the... good guys... and now, more than ever and for entirely different reasons, I want to get to know him too.

~*~*~*~


	6. Chapter 6

~*~*~*~ 

Benji having, just as he said he would, come through late last night with all of the reports pertaining to Brandt's last case in Germany, I'm now more convinced than ever before that what happened to him has to be able to be tracked back to someone inside the IMF. While on the screen it all reads normally enough, if not even a little on the mundane side, there's just something about the whole sorry tale that doesn't sit right with me. I'm not talking about the lies told by the hierarchy to cover up sensitive mission details either as that, really, is just part and parcel of the world we've chosen to work within. As far as I knew, and, granted, it can't be said I'd paid all that much attention to the news other than sparing a fleeting thought for the loss for an agent I hadn't even known, Brandt had been murdered during a mission. A – sadly – common enough occurrence not to raise suspicion or even warrant that much additional thought. He'd just been doing his job, and he'd died, and, shit – as it could happen to any of us at any time – just happens.

Only...

Ignoring the whole 'not-dead-but-captured' thing for a second, it's still not what actually happened at all.

The mission was over. He and his team had successfully completed their task of setting up electronic surveillance on certain members of the German parliament and were in fact all packed and ready to leave for the airport when, at the very last minute, an order arrived for Brandt to stay behind. Interpol needing assistance with tracking an experimental piece of stealth technology that had recently been stolen from Britain and which they thought may have been passing through Berlin en route to Russia, they'd requested from IMF the services of an analyst and, as Brandt had already been on site, the Secretary had handed him over without hesitation. It being an intelligence based task with allegedly no risks involved, the rest of his team had returned to D.C. as planned while he'd joined the two member Interpol team and nothing had seemed out of the ordinary at all.

Until, that is, two days later when his car exploded and, unbeknownst to everyone who hasn't had access to these reports, the bodies of the two Interpol agents were fished out of the River Spree. Unlike Brandt though, their bodies we're actually still recognisable and, clearly having read over the information himself before forwarding it to me, Benji had gone the extra mile and included both photographs of their corpses and their autopsy reports so that I could confirm this for myself. Recognisable. Badly tortured. And dead.

The Interpol agents were dead, Brandt was dead, and... the stealth technology was in the wind.

Not knowing where the leak might have come from, Interpol shut down the operation immediately, and IMF, feeling suspicious of Interpol but not wanting to rock the boat and risk an inter-agency incident by blaming them without having any truth to back them up, did the same. Reaching the conclusion of... better one dead agent from our side than a shit storm between agencies... they cut their losses, erased Brandt's involvement with Interpol from everything other than the official, sealed – and how Benji managed to gain access to them is serious cause for admiration all in itself – records, spread some story to the masses of how it had been mission related, silenced the other agents that had been there in Berlin with him beforehand, and... simply moved on.

Now, I understand the cover-up. I don't particularly like it – diplomacy is all well and good, but when you lose one of your own it comes off a very poor second best to the need to achieve justice at whatever cost – but I get it. I can even cope with their easy acceptance of the body in the burnt out wreck being that of Brandt's. The dental records matched, after all, it was his car, he'd been seen in the foyer of the hotel heading towards the parking lot just prior to the explosion, and... it all matched up. Not expecting him to have been targeted, let alone for anything else to have happened to him, it even made an acceptable degree of sense. The Interpol agents had also been murdered and, as they'd been tortured first, perhaps they'd just given up his name and location and, wanting to tie up all the loose ends, the gang had decided to take him out as well.

In fact, when all is said and one, most of it makes sense.

Until, of course, you discover that he's still alive and has spent the past six months being both held captive and pimped out. Having seen it before, the whole... sold into sexual slavery... angle makes a sordid amount of sense to me as well. As far as anyone else is concerned, the person you've suddenly got in your possession is dead and, well, as you've got to do... something... with them, why not go for selling them to a seedy or underground brothel? It gets them out of your hair, might even give you a bit of malicious satisfaction if you'd had a personal connection – and hated their guts – with them and, with any luck, they'll be both so drugged and... fucked... into submission that they won't even remember their own name let alone how they'd got there.

That, however, is basically where my... blasé... acceptance of everything that's happened comes to a crashing end.

Why were the Interpol agents killed and Brandt's death faked? Who actually died in the explosion? Could the leak have come from Interpol? What about the agents that had been with him in Berlin? None of their names mean anything to me, so could one of them be behind what happened? Seeing as the Secretary accepted Interpol's request, could – God forbid – he be the one responsible for selling out one of his own agents? What happened to the stealth technology? Where do I go from here? Am I even doing the right thing?

Brandt, gratifyingly, appears to be improving by the hour. He's still weak and, to my increasing frustration, not talking, but he doesn't seem anywhere near as ill as he did this time yesterday and actually managed to eat the two pieces of toast I gave him for breakfast this morning. He even, albeit with the assistance of a plastic chair I'd borrowed from the outdoor setting in the courtyard, had a shower by himself a couple of hours ago and, when he emerged from the bathroom, clean shaven and in baggy green pyjamas, I really was quite struck by how much better he looked. There was a hint of colour to his skin, his eyes finally seemed to be more blue than grey and, best of all, he even glanced over at me as I sat, pouring over the information on the laptop screen, on the sofa as opposed to just keeping his head lowered and simply slinking straight back to the bedroom.

Again, he's still very weak and sleeping a lot, but... he's getting there. I'm not deluded enough to simply assume that he trusts me, but nor, thankfully, is he as wary of me as he was and whenever I go into the bedroom to perform my nursemaid duties he accepts both my presence and my ministrations with relative ease. Part of me even thinks, although I know it's a strange take on the situation, that Brandt's more accepting – and... okay with – what's going on than I am. He takes the pills from me, lets me rub ointment into his back, puts up with my fussing and, in general, never seems bothered to see me. I babble at him, and supply him with water, food and clean pyjamas, and... he just lets me. I know he's sick, and that, as he's essentially reliant on me, he really doesn't have much choice in the matter, but that still doesn't mean that he couldn't fight me if he wanted to. He could cringe, refuse to budge from the bed, or, and I really wouldn't have been able to blame him if he had decided to go down this route, simply just given up and fallen into the open arms of depression.

But, no. Although I've never actually done this – care for another person in such an intimate, dedicated way – before, Brandt seems perfectly fine with my fussing and, as far as I'm concerned anyway, I could hardly ask for a better, more obliging and easy going patient to practice on. He tolerates me, is keeping food down, making it to and from the bathroom on his own, and, going on the way he chose to make use of the electric shaver entirely of his own accord, he's also feeling comfortable enough with how things are to both use his initiative and do what, with no prompting or hesitation, he wants.

I might be getting a bit twitchy and impatient from being stuck in the flat and with far more questions than I have answers to running in a relentless loop in my head, but given the alternatives, things really aren't that bad at all. Brandt's close to the perfect patient, he's still both fighting all the way and getting better for it, and, thanks to Benji's determination to help his friend, I have access to a good deal of the information I need. If Brandt doesn't start talking soon I might have to consider trying to get him to write down his answers to the questions I'm so desperately wanting to ask him but, as with everything, I'll continue to bide my time for the moment and will just cross that bridge when, or if, I come to it. For now though, while it might go against both my instinct and normal desire to always be on the move, I can be patient and just go with the flow.

Basically, it's the least that I can do. I can study all the information at my disposal, do what I can for Brandt, and, at the end of the day, just give him the time he needs to feel up to doing what he can to fill in some of the gaps in the story for me.

Stifling a yawn, I check the time on the bottom right hand side of the screen and, seeing that it's already past three in the afternoon, decide to get up and make myself a cup of coffee. Placing the laptop on to the coffee-table, I stand up and, as I stretch languidly and idly contemplate whether or not to check on Brandt to see if he's either awake or in need of a fresh bottle of water, suddenly hear the telltale sounds of my cell phone ringing from where I left it on the bench in the kitchenette. Immediately curious as to why, seeing as it's barely gone nine in the morning in D.C., Benji's calling so early, I hurry over to the bench and pick up the phone.

“What's with the early call?” I query by way of greeting. “Benji? Is everything okay?”

“That, I suppose, would very much depend on your definition of... okay,” Benji replies with none of his usual enthusiasm. “If it stretches as far as... bad news, followed by more bad news, and then, just for something a little different, a small spot of news that might take a bit of the sting out of the second bit of bad news, then... Hey. Everything's not just okay, it's positively peachy.”

“Peachy, huh?” I murmur drily as, wanting a change from the sofa, I take a seat at the table. “Before you get in to possibly ruining my day though, given that it's so early in the morning over there, where are you calling from? I mean, I don't want to alarm you or anything, but don't put it past them to bug your home.”

“Oh... I've already found them and, because I don't want them to know that I... uh... know, I've also devised a work around so that, should you ever need to contact me at home, you can still do so safe in the knowledge that no-one else will ever know,” he responds in a tone as dry as my own. “Bastards! Can you believe they'd bug one of their own? Talk about a bunch of... Uh. Sorry. What am I talking about, huh? Of course you can believe it.”

“Having been there, done that... Damn right I can believe it. Now... Humour me, please. Where are you calling from.”

“You're going to like this, you really are,” Benji retorts, sounding far more cheerful than he did only a second or two ago.

“Try me.”

“I'm calling from the Secretary's private bathroom!”

“Oh...” He's... calling from inside the Secretary's very own private bathroom. I... I don't even know why that surprises me, I really don't. “Dare I ask... why?”

“Because I know for a fact he's in New York and, even more importantly, I also know for a fact that his bathroom, like the Director's, is one of the few places in this Goddamn building that isn't bugged.” Pausing, Benji laughs quite happily. “Neat, huh? The Director's in New York too, but as the Secretary's is easier to get into...”

“You know something?” I interrupt with a chuckle. “You're right. I do like it. That, and I also commend you on your... supreme cunningness. Seriously, Benji. That's such a good one that I might even have to use it myself one day.”

“And because you're my friend I won't even charge you a commission on it,” he retorts. “But... Enough frivolity. Do you want to hear all of the bad news I came in to this morning or not?”

“Go on, then. Hit me with it.”

“Well, for starters, you've been disavowed.”

“Again,” I correct, far more amused to learn that the knee jerk reaction by IMF to my apparent disappearance was, instead of sending out a search party, to disavow me than I am bothered by it. “Make that... I've been disavowed... again. Oh... And by the way, that's hardly even newsworthy, let alone... bad... news.”

“But...”

“Don't take this the wrong way or anything, Benji, but I don't really care. If they want to write me off instead of having any concern as to what I might be doing or... why... I might be doing it, then... Fuck them. I'd rather be off the grid and doing what I'm doing than kissing ass at HQ and that's all there is to it.”

“Fine. I've got it. You're not bothered by having been... yet again... disavowed.”

“Nope. I'm really not. Again, if I had to choose between getting to the bottom of what happened to Brandt and playing nice for the Director, I'm telling you now, IMF wouldn't even come into it.”

“Okay. In that case... Moving on. The second piece of bad news I've got for you is that, despite having already gone for the 'Disavowed' stamp, they've still got just enough interest in what exactly it is you might be doing with your time to have sent an agent to Paris to try to track you down.”

“Oh.” Okay. Now that... is... a little annoying. Possibly to have been expected, but, still...

“Now, I'm sure you've covered your tracks exceptionally well and all of that, but...” 

“I don't know if I'd go that far, but I've certainly been careful and, thanks to you, know that I now have to be even more on my guard.”

“Actually... This is where the... not-so-bad... piece of news comes into it.”

“I'm listening.” I may not be expecting anything that I particularly want to hear, but I am at least listening.

“The agent they've sent to investigate is Jane Carter.”

“Who?”

“Jane Carter. She's been with IMF for a couple of years now and is an all-rounder. You know, as in...”

“She's skilled in all aspects of field work,” I finish with a sigh. “Look, Benji. I know what being an all-rounder means. What I don't, however, know is why you think this... Jane Carter... having been sent to look for me is good news.”

“Because I know her, and she knows Will, that's why,” Benji replies. “Jane's a good agent and she's not against going with her gut if she feels the situation calls for it. She's also worked a mission with Will before, and I know that they got along because not only did she join us for lunch one day in the cafeteria, but... I saw her at his memorial service and, I'm telling you, there were definite tears.”

“They were in a relationship?” I query, suddenly more interested both in what Benji has to say and where he's going with this than I was a moment ago. “If so, I'm not sure...”

“Not a relationship, no,” Benji states, cutting me off. “Just... Acquaintances who happen to get on well together. Jane, for what it's worth, has an on-again-off-again thing with Trevor...”

“Trevor?”

“Hanaway.”

“Oh. I know Hanaway, but I didn't know he was seeing anyone.”

“That's because you're hardly ever in town and, when you are, you don't exactly spend a lot of time talking to anyone.”

“Well... There is that, I suppose.”

“Now... Where was I? That's right. Jane's sort of seeing Trevor, but she likes Will, only just as a friend because they got on well during the mission they worked together, and Will... uh... doesn't go for her type anyway...”

“As in... an agent?”

“No. Female.”

“Oh.” Not, of course, that it's any of my business or anything.

“Don't quote me on it, and it's not as though it matters a damn anyway, but I always got the impression he was more interested in the male of the species.”

“So... Because this... Carter woman both knows and likes Brandt,” I mutter, making a bid to get the conversation back on track, “you're thinking I should get to her first and try to persuade her to... join our team, is that it?”

“I'm not telling you what to do, of course I'm not,” Benji replies hurriedly, if not even a little nervously, “but... I'm just putting it out there, yeah? Jane should be on a flight home from London with the rest of her team but, because she was the closest agent who just happens to be fluent in French, they charged her with the task of looking in to your disappearance. Now, she doesn't know you and is only doing as told, but... She both knows Will and happens to like him, and... I don't know, I just think she'd be willing to be on our side if she knew the truth of what was going on. Again... I'm not telling you to... turn her, and, hey, maybe I'm completely wrong and she won't have a bar of it and just try to take you in anyway, but... Think about it. If it works we'd have someone else to help us if the need ever arises or, failing that, she could just report false intel back to HQ about your whereabouts in order to buy you more time.”

Accepting that Benji may well be on to something here, I drum the fingers of my free hand against the tabletop and, although I know he can't see me, nod. “You... may well be right,” I murmur. “At any rate, it's a risk worth taking.”

“You don't have to...”

“I know I don't.”

“It was just an idea.”

“A good idea, so... Chill. This Agent Carter, as I don't know her, how will I recognise her?”

“I'll send a pic to your cell phone.”

“Good. Now... How will I know where to look for her?”

“As that's where you were last seen with Khavin, she was going to head to Montmartre late this afternoon. Don't worry though, as I know that place is a crap hole that doubles as a tourist Mecca, I can track her cell phone and send you her exact location so that you won't have to hunt for her.”

“Sounds good to me. And, Benji? You've got to learn not to doubt yourself. Your idea really is a good one, and, if this Carter really is as reasonable as you think she is, then she sounds like a good person to have in our corner.”

“Here's to hoping,” Benji murmurs, his momentary burst of confidence in his idea of getting Carter on side already a thing of the past as the doubt he's suddenly feeling comes through loud and clear in his voice. “Just... I'll send you her photo and co-ordinates and you... you can do with it what you like.”

“Hey... Enough with the doubt,” I declare, wanting to nip it in the bud before it has time to both grow in stature and make him not want to speak up in the future. “It's a good idea and, at the risk of sounding as though I'm blowing my own trumpet here, I wouldn't be willing to give it a go if I didn't see the logic in it. If we can get Carter on side then...”

“But... But what if it doesn't work?” Benji interrupts anxiously. “What if she refuses to listen to you and... and just takes you in!”

“I'd like to see her try,” I mutter under my breath. “Just... Seriously, Benji. It's fine. I'll go to her and, instead of just trying to convince her to take my word for it, I'll bring her back here to see him for herself.”

“If... she doesn't just take you down.”

“Well, if she manages to achieve that then she's truly a force to be reckoned with. Now...”

“Oh! Oh God, Ethan, I... I just had an awful thought!” Benji exclaims just a little on the breathless, if not downright panicked side. “What... Oh God... What if Jane's the leak, huh? What if... I mean, it doesn't bear thinking about, but... What if she's somehow behind all of this and we're... We could just be handing Will straight back to her! Ethan, I...”

“Do you... think... there's any chance that she could be the leak?” I query, quickly getting in while Benji draws breath as I try not to feel... too... annoyed at not having had this thought myself. I don't know Jane Carter and, really, that's what I should have been focussing on instead of getting caught up in Benji's enthusiasm.

“What? I... No. Of course not. Not Jane.”

“But... You raised the possibility...”

“Well, at the risk of sounding like Mulder...”

“Who?”

“Mulder. You know. Fox Mulder from The X Files.”

“I don't know, but as you seem to be referring to a television show here, go on...”

“Uh. Sorry,” Benji mutters apologetically. “I forgot for a second who I was talking to. But... Uh... Mulder was forever going on about... trusting no one, and... Well. That's where I was coming from, I suppose. I mean... I personally trust Jane, but...”

Sighing, I glance over at the bedroom door and, because I have to do something to keep things moving, make a snap decision to place the final call on whether this Jane Carter is to be trusted or not in Brandt's hands. Unlike me he actually knows her and, regardless of whether it ultimately proves to be a mistake on my part or not, I feel as though he's got enough of a vested interest in what's going on to be involved in the decision making process. “Okay, Benji, how about this... I'll ask Brandt if he's prepared to trust Carter and we'll go with his call...”

“But... Is he talking now? You didn't say anything about him talk...”

“He's not talking, but I know he understands everything I say to him and can either nod or shake his head. So... We'll leave it up to Brandt, yeah?”

“I... You know, I think that's probably a good idea, actually,” Benji murmurs with relief. “I knew I could trust you to find a... work-around.”

“And if he confirms that it's okay to trust her I'll immediately return to our original plan of seeking her out,”I reply, as relieved as Benji clearly is to have things back on track again. “Now... Moving back to where we were. If I don't get to come back to Brandt, he instantly becomes your responsibility. Do you hear me, Benji? I'm going to tell him to contact you if I'm not back within a specific time-frame and...”

“What? No. Ethan, you... Oh God, you can't...”

“I can, and I will. If this goes pear shaped and Brandt contacts you, you've got to do whatever it takes to either extract him or get over here yourself.”

“But...”

“No. No buts... I'm not leaving him, even if it is only for a short time and... before you say it... for a very good reason, without a backup plan. And you, Benji, are that plan.”

“But...”

“Think about it. If I don't come back he'll be on his own and clueless in regards to what's going on and... I don't know about you, but I don't really think that would be very good for him, do you?”

“No... But...”

“If it helps, I have every intention of coming back.”

“It does, but...”

“Just... Chill. It's a backup plan, that's all, not a given. And, again, I have no intention of it having to be utilised. Just... Think about Brandt though, he...”

“That's just it,” Benji states with a heavy sigh. “He's pretty much all I've been thinking about ever since you told me he was still alive. I mean... I think about everything he's been through...”

“Don't,” I interject warningly as, having more than a pretty good idea of what it is he's about to say, I just don't want to hear it. “Benji...”

“Six months, Ethan! He was gone for six months! I...”

“Don't. Just... Don't.”

“I think of him being raped and...”

“Benji! Don't do this to yourself.”

“But... He's my friend...”

“And, trust me, he wouldn't want you to be thinking along those lines any more than you do.”

“I... I know that, but...”

“Look. The past is just that... It's history. Incredibly fucking horrible history, granted, but there's nothing we can do about it now and just have to concentrate on both the present and the future. He's alive and...”

“Do you remember Agent Maria Rodriguez?” Benji queries softly. “I can't help but...”

“Don't go there,” I mutter, dropping my gaze down on to the table and wishing he'd – not gone there – never opened his mouth. “I know what you're thinking, and...”

“It took us a year to find her,” he whispers. “She was with him for twelve months.”

'He' being Andrew Parker, the drug dealer and sadist extraordinaire who took a liking to Rodriguez while she was undercover in his operation and who, because he was a rich asshole who thought it was his God given right to take whatever he damn well pleased, thought it would be a good idea to keep her all to himself. Although we knew he had to be the one to have kidnapped her and threw all our resources into tracking him, it still took over a year to get her back from him as he was both always moving the base of his operation and just too good at covering his tracks. I wasn't involved in the case personally, but as it was just about all anyone could talk about for months, I remember it well. Too well, even.

“I know all this, Benji,” I sigh, “and I don't think...”

“She killed herself, did you know that?” Benji replies glumly. “They kept her at the Sanctuary for six months before deeming her fit to return to the care of her parents, and... and she was dead within the week. I... I just don't want Will...”

“Although I can't give you any guarantees, Benji, you really do have to believe me when I say that he seems... okay,” I respond, seizing on the idea of focussing solely on Brandt as opposed to confessing that, no, I didn't know she'd taken her own life as, really, just as Benji's already only too aware, it's not a nice thought at all. “He's better today than he was yesterday, and while I can't for the life of me even begin to imagine what he's going through, I'm as positive as I can be that he's a fighter and that... he'll get there. It... It's still early days and we just have to both keep a very close eye on him and be patient. I know the thoughts you've been having are just too easy to fall prey to, but... Listen to me, you've got to be strong and fight them off. As we've all got something of a battle on our hands at the moment, we just have to stay focussed. Again, he's alive and, if you want to fixate on anything, fixate on that. Your friend, he's still alive.”

“I... I know that. It's just, Ethan, I... I don't want to let him down. If my idea of getting Jane on side fails, or... or if he contacts me and I don't know what to do, I...”

“You'd waste thirty seconds on having a melt down, and then you'd pull yourself together and do whatever it took to help him,” I finish. “I have faith in you, Benji, and, seeing as you appear not to have heard me the first few times that I said it, that's why I'm going to approach Carter. Your idea is a good one, you're not going to let Brandt down, and, listen to me, we need you. Brandt and I, we need you to keep it together.”

“I...”

“No more doubt. Just agree with me and move on.”

“Is that an order?” Benji queries with a welcome degree of factiousness. 

“Damn right it's an order.”

“In that case I'd better hang up then and get on with finding a photograph of Jane to send to you.”

“You do that and, then, once you've confirmed her location, I'll leave the phone with Brandt and head off to find her.”

“You'll let me know how it goes?”

“If it all works out I'll send you a text to let you know.”

“And... If it doesn't?”

“The race will be on to see whether you get a message from Brandt first, or whether you learn on the wire that Carter's taken my disavowed ass into custody.”

“When you put it like that...”

“You can perhaps think of a better way of putting it?”

“Well, not really, no.”

“That's what I thought.”

“Here's to hoping yours is the message I get first,” Benji chuckles. “As we've both got things we need to do though, I'd better let you go now and get on with finding a pic to send.”

“Sounds good,” I reply. “Once I've got both the photo and her location I'll be on my way. Oh... And, Benji? Think positive.”

“Actually... You'll either laugh or just roll your eyes at this,” he responds with another chuckle, “but I brought the DVD last night. You know, the Star Trek one I was telling you about yesterday? I wasn't even thinking about it, but there it was in the store that I just happened to be in, and I... I just couldn't help myself. I know it was jumping the gun, but...”

“Jumping the gun or not, I think it's great,” I murmur, amused – not for the first time or I suspect the last – by the way Benji's mind operates and maybe, just perhaps, possibly even being a little envious of it. “Give him time, and I'm sure he'll be only too happy to watch it with you.”

“I'm kind of counting on it, actually. But... Whenever. I'm fine with waiting for however long it takes. Uh... Enough of this though, yeah... I'll get the photo to you soon and... I'll be talking to you.”

Ending the call, just as he did yesterday, before I have time to offer him my own farewells, I shrug at his apparent need to have the last word and stand up. Knowing that I have to explain just what it is I'm about to do, not to mention the possible consequences it could have for him, to Brandt, I turn to head in the direction of the bedroom when, to my surprise, I spot him walking out of the bathroom. Too focussed on getting what I needed to through to Benji, I hadn't even been aware that he was up, let alone that he'd already been up long enough to be on his way... back... to bed and to see him up and about actually takes me aback. I know that's he's quiet on his feet, seeing as he's still moving quite slowly and, as though he feels like he needs something to hold on to, he always keeps close to the wall, but, I don't know, I still would have thought I should have noticed he was out of bed.

Thinking better of calling out to him to either stop or come over to me, I keep the phone held loosely in my hand and, thankful for the fact that he's already awake and I'm not going to have to wake him, follow Brandt into the bedroom. Entering the room just as he sinks down on the edge of the bed, I wait until he's looking up at me with, if not exactly an alert expression, then at least a questioning one on his already strangely familiar face, and, wanting to get straight to the point, state, “I have to go out.”

This clearly being just about the last thing he expected to hear from me, Brandt's eyes widen and he gives me a look that seems to be made up of equal parts of both nervousness and alarm.

“Don't worry,” I continue hurriedly as, not liking his reaction, I default to my favoured position of crouching down – so as to never give the impression of looming over him – in front of him and smile reassuringly. “Wanting to keep you fully appraised of what's going on, I'm not going anywhere until you know as much as I do. So... Working, here, on the assumption that you're feeling up to it, do you just want me to get on with it?”

Nodding, Brandt shuffles closer to the top of the bed and pats the freshly vacated patch of mattress next to him in an open invitation for me to take a seat.

Pleased to see him once again using his initiative, I broaden my smile and, without either hesitating or asking if he's sure he's okay with it, stand up and sit down on the edge of the mattress. “Thanks. While I'm not going to be drawn on the condition of my knees, this is a vast improvement and I appreciate the gesture,” I murmur as, obviously wanting to know what it is I'm going to say, Brandt turns to better face me. “Okay. Keeping it as short as I can while still hopefully covering all the pertinent points, I'll start with this... In perhaps the ultimate display of irony, I... Actually, no... Make that, we... As he's doing it as much, if not more, for you as he is for me, we have a... mole... back at HQ.” Pausing, I roll my eyes at how badly this, my... hardly... succinct and coherent explanation, is already going, as, it nonetheless appearing to do the trick, Brandt looks at me expectantly. “Not, mind you, that I probably would have put two and two together and reached this, again, incredibly fucking ironic, conclusion myself if not for the email address he used to send the information I'd asked him for. Just... Wait for it. The email came from... InternalMoleForce... And, yes, you did hear me correctly.”

His lips almost twitching into a brief, fleeting smile, Brandt watches me closely through bright eyes and waits for me to go on. 

“Mmm... It's good, isn't it? I probably should have expected it, but... I hadn't, and, yeah, it caught me out, it really did,” I mutter with another roll of my eyes as, unable to help myself, I laugh. “Now, and it wouldn't surprise me in the slightest if you've already worked this out for yourself, but our very own private member of... uh... the... InternalMoleForce... just happens to be Benji Dunn, who, I think, you happen to know reasonably well...”

Nodding, which thrills me because it means he's not only listening but is also wanting to do his best to engage as well, Brandt shifts just that little bit closer to me and, for perhaps the first time, his gaze momentarily catches mine. Startled, although I don't know why, by this, he quickly drops his head and, not wanting to lose the ground we've just made, I simply pick up where I left off and push on.

“So... Yes. Benji. I've been working closely with him for about a year now and, when I told him that you were still alive and that I could, although the choice was always his alone and I was never going to press him on it, use his help, he... Well... I think it's safe enough to say that he jumped at the chance. He considers you a friend, Brandt, and, because of that, he's both on board with my plan to track down whoever it was that did this to you... and... willing to feed us information from inside IMF. Now... Getting on to why it is I have to go out, he called not so long go... Oh... And if you were wondering who I was talking to on the phone when you went to the bathroom, it was Benji calling to share not only the hardly interesting fact that I'd been disavowed, but also that, despite having basically washed their hands of me, they'd sent an agent to Paris to try to track me down...”

This snippet of news having just about the same effect on Brandt as my statement of having to go out did, he lifts his head and, obviously worried by the thought of being left on his own, gives me a wide-eyed look.

“According to Benji, this, however, is... kind of... good news,” I continue as I reach out my hand and place it both lightly, and for all of a few seconds at best, on Brandt's knee. “The agent charged with the far from envious task of trying to find me is Jane Carter, who, I believe you've done a mission with, and who, if Benji's to be believed, is as good a candidate as any to, well, join our side.” My phone suddenly chiming its message received sound, I glance down at it and see that, with perfect timing, Benji's come through with a photograph of Carter. Bringing it up on screen, I make note of her long, dark wavy hair, attractive features and... 'take no prisoners'... expression before, once I'm confident that I'll recognise her when I see her, holding the phone out for Brandt to take a look at. “I take it that you recognise this woman as the Agent Carter you once worked with?”

Taking the phone from me, he looks down at the screen closely before, with a nod, placing it back in my hand.

“Now... Benji thinks, instead of just staying one step ahead of her, that it would be a good idea for me to, again, and because I don't know of a better way to put it, get her to join our side. He's convinced that the history you share together will make her open to the idea of wanting to help and while, okay, I'm on the fence about whether we actually need her or not, I do have to say that I like the idea of Benji having someone back in D.C. that he can use for backup. But... Whatever. If you think the idea is a stupid one or would just prefer to stay in the flat and wait her out, just... let me know by shaking your head. Alternatively, if you think highly enough of her to think the risk of seeking her out and trying to appeal to... her better nature... is worth it, then... all you have to do is nod for me. I'm prepared to go with your gut on this one, Brandt, and want you to know that once you've made your decision that I'll abide by it.”

Looking surprised – or it could be bemused – that I apparently think enough of him to want him to make such an important decision, Brandt bites down on his bottom lip and gazes at a random spot on my chest for what feels like minutes before giving a small shrug and nodding.

“It's done, then,” I state, returning my hand to his knee and giving it a very quick squeeze as, his timing once again proving to be immaculate, another message, this time with Carter's current location and a grainy photo taken from CCTV footage of her outside of a café by way of proof, from Benji arrives. “I'll go and charm Carter into joining us while you, all the time thinking happy, positive thoughts, wait here for us to get back. Now... Uh... You might not like this very much, but as... and you'll probably know this already if you've ever heard anything about some of the missions I've done... things have a bad habit of going to shit where I'm concerned, I'm going to leave both the phone with you and instructions to get in contact with Benji if I don't happen to come back.” 

Not wanting to see Brandt's reaction to this... cold hard fact of life, I stand up and place the phone on the bedside table. “The only number in it is Benji's and he knows to expect a message from you if, and I'm not saying they will, things go to shit. Trust me, Brandt, I have every intention of coming, with or without Carter in tow, back and will be doing everything in my power to make sure this happens. Not wanting to just... uh... abandon you though, the phone is simply my way of... an insurance plan. I don't think you'll need it, but, if you...” Trailing off as the unexpected feel of Brandt's hand touching my elbow causes me to lose my train of thought, I spin around and look over at him as, frowning, he holds up first his index finger, and then his middle finger.

Knowing instantly just what it is he's wanting to know, not to mention marvelling yet again at how... engaged... he's been in all of this, I smile and murmur, “Two. Get in contact with Benji if I'm not back in two hours. Carter's only in Montmartre, which is only five or so minutes away by car, so... To be honest with you I hope to be back within not much more than thirty minutes. But... Let's make it two hours anyway, just to be on the safe side.”

Nodding, he trails his finger along the phone before, possibly for no other reason than he doesn't know what else to do with himself, swinging his legs up on to the mattress and lying down. 

“It'll be okay, you'll see,” I state as, regardless of knowing all too well that time is now of the essence, I walk over to the bed and gently pull the bedding over him. “I'll either be back with our new ally, or I'll be back on my own. Either way, Brandt, I'm not leaving you and will be back.”

Once again not wanting to take any notice of his expression in case it fills me full of doubt or makes me want to pull the plug without even having stepped foot outside, I walk out of the bedroom and, after picking up the keys to both the flat and the BMW from the coffee-table, make a beeline for the front door. The café Benji has Carter at being called, and this only reinforces my opinion that those responsible for naming shops, cafés or clubs in Paris have to either have mental health issues of some description or be on drugs, La Grenouille Paisley, I already know, having passed it that night – the one that seems a lifetime ago now – I was meeting Andrei Khavin in Montmartre, both how to get there and that it has on-street parking available directly in front of it and this, or so I hope anyway, just makes what's coming all that little bit easier. My plan, such as it is, being to park, manhandle – without drawing the attention of the general, well-meaning but ultimately interfering, public – Carter in to the car and to just get back to the flat in as little time as possible, I don't exactly have a lot to think about or troubleshoot and, as I unlock and climb into the car, I realise that I'm quite calm. 

This, after all, is familiar territory. Just like that night I was waiting in the hotel room for the arrival of the man who, at the time, I still didn't know for certain was an IMF agent or not, I have my plan, I know what I'm doing, and... I'm confident enough in my own abilities to know that I can see it through. Carter mightn't react as favourably as Benji has and, to an extent, if his willingness to take the risk of at least trying to talk to her was anything to go by, Brandt think she will, but that doesn't mean I won't give it my best shot. I'll do my best to convince her to, wanting to play the... 'show and tell' card... with her in a way that I can't with Benji, come back to the flat with me and, if it doesn't look like it's going to work, I'll just disappear. Without having – even heard her name until thirty minutes ago – read her personnel file, I know, if nothing else, that she's a fully qualified IMF agent and that I can't just take the risk she poses lightly For Brandt and, as I really would like him to have someone he could bounce ideas off, or even just to talk to, in D.C., Benji though, the risk just has to be an acceptable one and I know that it's down to me to successfully pull it – essentially turning a fellow agent from blindly following the IMF party line and getting them to join... the rebellion – off.

And, despite having everything to lose, it's a task I feel more than up for.

Traffic, for both a notable and blissful change, being light for once, the drive from the flat in Pigalle to the ludicrously named 'Paisley Frog' in Montmartre doesn't even take the five minutes I'd estimated it would and, if that wasn't amazing enough, a Citroën sedan pulls out from a park in front of the café just as I get there, and...

While I'm not one to believe in omens, I'll take it.

Both the car park itself and the promising signs, not being one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I'll just take it.

Slipping the BMW into the slot left by the Citroën, I look out through the windscreen and watch as, standing up and dropping a handful of coins down onto the table, Carter starts to walk away from the café. Seizing on the opportunity to make my job hopefully far easier than my original plan of either joining her at the table or just catching up with her as she walked along, I climb out of the car and, just as she's nearing the bonnet of the BMW, loudly greet her like a long lost friend.

“Jane, darling!” I exclaim, stepping away from the car door and, before she's even had time to locate the source of the unknown voice calling out her name, engulfing her in an embrace. “There you are!” I continue, smiling brightly and giving her cheek a quick kiss as, hidden behind my show of a warm, friendly hug, I pat her down and retrieve both her cell phone and gun from where she'd had them secreted away in her navy blue leather jacket. “I thought I'd missed you!”

“No such luck,” Carter mutters, shooting me an icy – yet somewhat unbothered – look as, knowing that now is neither the time nor the place to make a scene, she returns my embrace half-heartedly and smiles almost as brightly as I am. “Ethan, honey,” she adds through clenched teeth. “You know, you're just about the last person I ever expected to see here.”

“Well... Surprise!” Slipping both her gun and cell into the pocket of my jeans, I gesture at the driver's side of the car and beam. “Come on, my love. Wanting to give you yet another surprise, I'm even going to let you drive!”

“You're too kind,” Carter grinds out as, still smiling a blank, practised smile for the benefit of anyone who might be watching our little performance, she climbs in behind the steering wheel and, without even needing to be told, places her hands on it so that I can see them at all times. “So... Are you going to tell me where we're going, or... is that going to be a surprise too?”

“That, Snookums, is up to you,” I reply, giving my pocket a small pat in order to remind her that I've got her gun and that she isn't to make any stupid moves before closing her door and jogging around the car to get in the passenger seat. “So, Agent Jane Carter, I presume?” I murmur, flashing her a shit-eating grin as, protected from the prying eyes of the public by the dark tint of the BMW's windows, she glares absolute – as in, if looks could kill I'd be a pile of smouldering ash on the seat – daggers at me.

“Agent Ethan Hunt, or, as you happen to currently be disavowed, just plain old Ethan Hunt,” she retorts, clenching her fingers around the wheel. “I'd heard rumours that you were fucking crazy and, hey, thanks to this display of rampant insanity, now I know that they weren't just rumours. Just... What the fuck are you playing at, huh? Seeing as it's pretty fucking obvious you know that I'm supposed to...”

“Along with being crazy, I'm also omniscient,” I interrupt in a drawl as, liking how Carter seems far more curious in respect to what's going on here than she is afraid of me, I give her a wink. “I'd have thought, seeing as I'm obviously such a hot topic on the rumour mills, that you'd have known that already.”

“I don't usually put much weight on what I hear whispered in the halls but you... I've been... unlucky... enough to know you for a couple of minutes and already I know that everything I've ever heard is true.” Scowling, she bangs her hands down on the steering wheel. “Now, unless you're just feeling lonely and in need of some banter, what the fuck is going on here? Most people, although, hey, I realise already that you don't seem to fall into the... most people... category, lay low or leave town when they know that they're being tracked. They don't, and I'm sorry if this is news to you, make a point of going out of their way to... kidnap... the tracker!”

Liking Carter for both her smart mouth and fearless nature more and more by the second, I shrug and, solely because I know it will piss her off, place my hand on her shoulder and give it a squeeze. “I haven't kidnapped you at all,” I respond, laughing as she smacks my hand away and shoots me an annoyed look. “I'm just... availing myself to your services as a chauffeur, that's all.”

“That's all, my ass. Get to the point, Ethan, before I get out of the car and leave you with the decision as to whether you want to risk making a scene on this crowded street or not. I... I don't know what you're playing at, but I'm not falling for it.”

“I'm not playing at anything,” I reply with a sigh as I lean back in my seat and, in a move designed to let her know that I'm not wanting to be viewed as a treat to her at all, gaze out through the windscreen. “I know it seems that way, and, if it helps at all, I'm not going to hurt you and apologise for the way I've gone about this.”

“Save it,” Carter mutters, drumming her fingers with obvious impatience on the steering wheel. “I don't want your apologies, Ethan, I want an explanation. You should be... hiding from me, not seeking me out, and... the only reason I'm taking this as... calmly, and, believe me, this... is... calm, as I am is because I want to know why.”

“Okay.” Nodding, I swivel in my seat to face her and, once she's looking at me, shrug. “It's like this... Come with me and see for yourself, and... I'll explain everything. Failing that, if you're not wanting to take the chance and just want nothing to do with either me or what I'm trying to do, then... It ends now. You get out of the car and you don't see me again.”

“Why should I?” Carter queries, mirroring my shrug as, yet again proving that she's not the slightest bit afraid of me, she defiantly meets my gaze. “As far as I'm concerned you're a disavowed agent who's currently off the grid and most likely up to no good. I don't owe you anything, Ethan, and, in case it's escaped your attention, I'm neither scared nor in awe of you. So... Come on. Tell me why I should ignore my orders and come with you.”

“Because the two people who currently mean the most to me in this entire fucked up world seem to trust you and think it would be a good idea, that's why,” I state cryptically. “At the risk of feeding your impression of being some sort of crazy bastard who lives with his head stuck up his own ass, I hadn't even heard of you sixty minutes ago, Carter, and don't much care either way if you choose to come with me or not.”

“Way to dint a girl's ego,” she retorts with a strangely genuine looking smile. “And... It's Jane. I may be a new, unknown entity in the world outside both your own ass and the two unknown people you seem to have hooked up with, but... so long as I am in it, I want you to call me Jane. Carter always reminds of that prick I had as a trainer and I hate it.”

“Fine. So... Jane, now that we have a better idea of where we stand with each other, are you in or not?”

“I haven't decided.”

“And I haven't got all day.”

“Then help me out here by telling me the names of your two... mysterious... friends.”

I shake my head. “I can't.”

“Going on what you said, they know who I am,” Jane replies, “so...”

“I can't,” I repeat. “If you agree to come with me you'll not only actually get to see one, the... uh... most important one, actually, of them but you'll also learn who the other one is, but... I'm sorry, I am, and I understand your hesitation, but I can't tell you who they are without first getting a guarantee from you that, if nothing else, you have an open mind about what's really going on here.”

“I... I'll admit that I'm certainly curious,” Jane replies, sighing as she looks down at her hands, “but... Again, tell me why I should do this? I don't know you, you won't tell me what's going on without...”

“Because,” I murmur, cutting her off, “those two people who just happen to mean a lot to me? They'd like you to. That... That's why I'm here. They trust you enough to think you might want to be on our side, and... That's pretty much all I have, actually.”

“I'm...” Sighing again, Jane gives me a sad, possibly even weary look. “I'm loyal to IMF.”

“So am I.”

“You're not doing a very good job of showing it.”

“That's a matter of opinion,” I murmur, flashing her a brief smile. “Just... Come with me and find out for yourself.”

“You went off grid.”

“And now I'm disavowed. Would I be... fronting you like this though if I didn't think it was worth the risk? I don't know you, but... my friends... think that we need you, and that, again, is why I'm here. The decision, however, as there's not really a lot more I can say without knowing your answer, is yours and I'll respect it.”

“I...” Frowning, Jane reaches for the ignition key. “I'm not guaranteeing anything, but... Fine. You've made me curious now, curious enough to ditch my orders and come with you, and... You win. I'll meet your friend, listen to your story, and, once I know what's going on, I'll make up my mind.”

“You know that if...”

“I don't take your side, you'll both disappear?”

“You got it in one.”

“Seeing as I assumed as much anyway, I'm fine with that. In fact, knowing the risk you're taking here just by talking to me, you have my word that I'll even give you both a head start.”

“You're too kind,” I mutter, glancing at the ignition and nodding to indicate that she switch it on. “Now... As I wasn't asking for a guarantee at this point, I, solely because I just want you to be able to both see... and hear things for yourself before making your mind up, accept your terms and think that it's probably time for us to get a move on. So... Let's just get on with it, yeah?”

Nodding, Jane turns the key and gives me an expectant look. “Going to tell me where we're going?”

“You drive and I'll direct,” I confirm, settling back in my seat. “We're not going far, anyway, and should be there in a couple of minutes.”

Traffic being a little heavier than it was when I drove to the café, it takes just over ten minutes to reach the flat and, there not really being anything more that needs to be said at the moment, we complete the drive in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Trusting my gut instinct, I already feel comfortable enough with Jane to know that I made the right decision to approach her. There's still the doubt – of course there is, there just has to be – that things could go horridly wrong if she decides to have nothing to do with what's going on once she's fully aware of the big picture, but, as with just about everything I'll cross that particular bridge when or if I reach it. As for Jane herself, I suspect her mind has to be absolutely racing at the... strangeness... of what she's suddenly found herself a part of. Being directed to look for an errant agent is one – rather normal – thing. To have said agent both seek you out and get you to come with him though? That, needless to say, isn't exactly normal and, even if it is solely driven by reasons of curiosity, I admire the relative ease in which she's accepted the – massive – change in how she'd most likely planned to spend the rest of her day. She listened to me with open-minded interest and, just as I would have if our roles had been reversed, she made up her mind to give me the benefit of the doubt and to see for herself just what it is that's currently guiding my – non-IMF sanctioned – actions. 

Now all I have to do is hope that things continue to go as well as they been.

Because if they don't, and Benji's wrong about Jane's willingness to help, things... They could be about to become more than a little awkward. Not to mention potentially, in terms of suddenly having to up and, with Brandt it tow, disappear, messy.

“And... Here we are,” I comment, pointing out the car window to the front door of the flat as Jane brings the BMW to a stop and switches off the engine. “Home sweet home.”

“If you're down with the Parisian version of an urban slum then, yeah, home sweet home,” Jane mutters, wrinkling her nose as we both get out of the car and, in a display of oddly timed unison, push our doors shut. “I'll have you know, Ethan, you've got me curious if nothing else,” she adds, getting in step behind me as, fishing the key out of my pocket, I walk up the door. “I mean... I don't even know if I can trust you yet... Already I've fallen hook, line and sinker for your cryptic tale of needing me. Just... Fuck! I don't even know if this means I'm simply too curious for my own good, or whether I'm a fucking idiot who can't even be trusted by her employer to complete a simple task on her own.”

“In this case, curiosity is definitely you're friend,” I reply, placing the key in the lock before glancing over my shoulder and, more wary than I was even a minute ago as to just how this is going to pan out, frowning. “Look... This is going to be a shock, okay... A... big... shock, at that, and I want you to take your cues from me. I know it's going to be hard, but don't over react and don't... expect too much. Just... Be patient.”

Unlocking the door with both a sigh and a surreptitious cross of my fingers, I step into the flat and, as Jane crowds in behind me, the first thing I notice is the wide open bedroom door and empty bed. Logic tells me, especially seeing as he's never shown any inclination – or prerequisite energy – to want to get away, that he still has to be in the flat somewhere, but...

For a truly awful, almost heart stopping moment as I stand flat-footed in the doorway, my only thought is that... Fuck. He's gone. I was wrong to leave him on his own and now he's gone.

Then, of course, just about everything has to go and happen at once.

I spot Brandt, sitting on the edge of the armchair with my phone still clutched in his hand, in the living area.

Jane too spots Brandt and, as the expected, breathlessly exclaimed statement of, “Oh my God,” slips past her lips, he in turn spots her. 

And promptly reacts by giving every indication of struggling to stave off a panic attack.

His eyes widening as his breathing becomes shallow, he jumps to his feet and, dropping his gaze to the floor, takes an unsteady step backwards.

Jane, despite having no idea what's going on, then has to go and act purely on instinct by shifting around me and making to close in on Brandt. 

This in turn only adds to Brandt's increasing agitation and, moving quickly as she stammers, “Will! Oh my God. I... But... I don't believe it,” I get in front of her while simultaneously gesturing for him to stay behind my back.

As meetings go, I'm sure things could have gone worse. I'm not exactly sure... how... worse, but hopefully the worst of it is over now and I can, with any luck, get things back on track.

“I... I wouldn't if I were you,” I comment blandly as Brandt, clearly finding me the lesser of two evils, shifts closer to me and, to my surprise, places his hand lightly on my back. “Just... It's okay, but...”

“I wouldn't... what?” Jane interrupts in a demanding tone as, despite folding her arms defensively across her chest, she nonetheless has the good grace to acknowledge Brandt's discomfort by taking a step back to give him more space. “Will? What's going on here? I... Ethan? I don't understand.”

“It's okay,” I murmur, picking up where I left off as, the wind having been knocked out of her sails, Jane drops her arms to her sides and, as she continues to try to look past me to see Brandt, visibly sags before my eyes. “Brandt's just... a little sore, that's all, and... uh... he's not up to being hugged at the moment, and...”

“I'd say there's more to it than just being... a little sore,” Jane murmurs softly as her stunned expression of only a moment ago changes to one of understanding. “Look... Seeing as it's pretty clear I'm not the only one shocked by all of this, how about I... Go into the kitchen over there and get myself a drink or something while you two work out... just what it is you're wanting to do. There's a lot I want to say, want to do, even, but I can tell that this isn't currently working and don't want to force things, so... Uh... I'll just be over there if anyone needs me.”

Her, 'How To Diffuse The Situation' card deployed, Jane, without waiting for an answer, walks into the kitchenette and leaves me more or less alone with Brandt. Turning around, I gently manhandle him so that – if at any point he feels up to lifting his head and gazing over my shoulder – he can keep an eye on Jane if he wants to and, not wanting to make an issue out of his reaction to her arrival, simply flash an unbothered smile in the general vicinity of his lowered forehead. 

“I'm assuming, yeah, that the woman I've gone and invited into our lives is the Agent Jane Carter you know and remember?” I query in a quiet voice, not because I actually doubt it but because I want to give Brandt something perfectly mundane to focus on. I think, and I'm annoyed at myself for not having given some thought to this sooner, that although he knows, and might even trust Jane, having her here, in what's been... our... space for so many days now, not to mention seeing him as he is now, it's probably just a bit much for him. She's all eager and enthusiastic and embracing the fact he's still alive with open arms, while he... most likely just wants to hide.

Nodding, Brandt lifts his head up just high enough to give me an embarrassed, miserable look.

“Good. Not used to picking up strange women from off the street, that's one less thing I have to worry about,” I murmur, trailing my fingers lightly down his arm before, as he's always seemed accepting enough of it in the past, taking his cold hand in mine and squeezing it. “Now... As I'm going to have to sit her down and explain everything, well, as much as I currently know, anyway, to her, do you want to... stay and listen in, or... go back to bed? Having you up, particularly as she got to see you, when we got back was great, but you don't have to stay up if you don't want to. You're more than welcome too, of course, but...”

Silencing me by both squeezing my hand back and beginning to move towards the bedroom, Brandt makes his decision known as clearly as words ever could and, pleased that he still feels up to both making his own decisions and acting on them, I keep my hand closed around his and follow him into the room.

“It goes without saying that she'll still want to see you again,” I comment as, once again helping him into bed, I hesitate over taking the phone off him. Clutched in his hand as though it's taken on the symbolic nature of a security blanket, he's shown no signs of wanting to give it back to me and, not wanting to add to his already quite high stress levels, I decide that there'll be no harm in simply leaving it with him and quickly back this decision up by not so much as glancing at it. “I can try to hold her off, if you'd like, but...”

Shaking his head, Brandt risks a fleeting look at me as, almost in a show of independence, he places the phone, within easy reach, on the bedside table next to both his bottle of water and collection of pills.

“So... You're okay with the idea of Jane coming in here to see you?” I query, wanting to make sure he's as fine with the thought of being cornered in his own room as he's ever likely to be as, with the most cursory of glances at the phone to let him know that I have no problem with him keeping it, I start to walk over to the door. “Brandt? She's your friend, and I'm sure only wants what's best for you and...”

Once again silencing me with a quick nod, Brandt slides down the bed and, after pulling the covers up, rests his head on the pillow.

Knowing a dismissal when I see it, I smile at the man who in such a short period of time has come to mean so much to me and, pulling the door three-quarters shut as I go, make my way into the kitchenette.

“I've been good. I've been patient, and I've been playing your fucking game to the best of my ability,” Jane states, giving me a narrow-eyed look as she toasts me with an already half empty bottle of beer. “But... Just what the fuck is going on here, Ethan? That... That shell of a man you just disappeared into the bedroom with? I don't know if you know this or not, but he's supposed to be dead. And... Do you want to know why I know this? I attended his fucking memorial service, that's why! I attended the memorial service of both a friend and one of the best agent's I've ever worked with, and I... I cried! Having no reason to believe anything to the contrary, I cried for the death of my friend, and... and I've missed him. Now, though... I see that he's alive, and I've just got to ask... What the fuck is going on here, huh? Did he fake his own death? Why... I... I just don't get it. Any of it. I don't understand a single fucking thing that's going on here.”

“You recognise him, then?” I ask in an attempt to deflect her – understandable though it might be – increasing ire as, feeling somewhat in need of a beer myself, I brush past her en route to the refrigerator.

“What's that supposed to mean, huh?” Jane demands, barely waiting until I've retrieved a beer from the shelf before slamming the door shut and giving me a look that tells me in no uncertain terms that my lame ass attempt at improving her mood was a dismal failure. “You're telling me that you... don't?”

Despite knowing full well that it's the equivalent of that old 'red rag to a bull' saying, I shrug and twist the lid off my bottle. “Never having met the man before this week, no, I can't say that I do recognise him,” I reply, toasting Jane with my beer before bringing the bottle to my mouth and taking a very much needed sip.

“So... So this is just all some sort of fucking huge joke to you?” she retorts as, looking as though she honestly can't stand to be near me, she stalks over to the table and sinks down into a chair. “Just... At the risk of sounding repetitive here, just what the fuck are you playing at here, Ethan? Are you telling me that that man isn't...”

“Shit! No... Sorry...” Realising the error of my ways in that she's translated my question to mean that the man in the bedroom is just some stranger who, for reasons known only to my fucked-in-the-head self, I'm trying to pass off as Brandt, I shake my head and walk over to the table. “Sorry,” I repeat, miming a smack to the side of my head as I take a seat in the chair to her right. “Fingerprints not being in the habit of lying, I give you my word that I believe the man you just saw is Agent William Brandt. Not having known him while he was... uh... alive, I can't just look at him and see someone I actually recognise. You, however, and this is what I was trying to get at with my incredibly stupid question, should be able to recognise him and... Uh... That's what I was wanting to know.”

“Can I see Will in him?” Sighing, Jane takes a swig of beer before placing the bottle down on the table and glancing over in the direction of the bedroom. “Yeah... Of course I can. He's both a lot thinner and a lot paler than when I last saw him, and his hair, although it's always been short, like, far shorter than that mop you're currently sporting, is definitely a lot shorter, but... It's still Will. His eyes... He... He's got the sort of eyes you never forget...”

Following Jane's lead by looking over at the bedroom, I smile faintly and nod. “I think I already know what you mean,” I murmur, absent-mindedly rolling the bottle between my hands. “Now... We're good, yeah?”

“If you mean whether we're on the same page about Will being in the room over there as opposed to being a pile of ashes in a wall, then... Yeah. We're on the same page.” Settling back in her seat, Jane fixes me with a steely look. “My patience not exactly being legendary, you still need to get talking, Ethan, before I just snap and lose it. While I get the impression you don't have all the answers yourself, I want to know what you... do... know, and I want to know now.”

“In that case...” Returning my attention to Jane, I lean forward and, for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, go through the story of the past five days. Wanting to get it through to her that she can trust me, I don't, with the notable exception of the bit about allowing Brandt to be molested by the very doctor I took it upon myself to take him to, leave anything out and, with only a couple of relevant questions here or there to break my narrative, she listens intently, hanging off my every word. 

“And...” Taking a mouthful of beer, I once again toast her with the bottle and shrug wearily. “There you have it. I wish I could tell you more, but I can't. Hell... I don't even know if the leak is IMF or Interpol, and... And if it hadn't been for Khavin wanting absinthe that night, Brandt, he...”

“Don't,” Jane interrupts in a hoarse voice as she shoots me a warning look through eyes bright with tears. “It... It's bad enough as it is without thinking about him still being there because we're all too fucking gullible and clueless to...” Trailing off, she angrily swipes the back of her hand across her eyes. “Let's just say... Thank God for Khavin, and leave it at that.”

“Works for me,” I mutter as, noticing to my surprise that I must have drank more during my tale than I realised, I place the empty bottle down on the table. “Look. I know it's bad, but...”

“Bad?” Her expression incredulous, Jane shakes her head and slams her hands down on the table. “Bad is having your shoulder dislocated in a fight or momentarily losing your target. What happened to Will isn't just... bad, it... it's...”

“Appalling?” I offer quietly. “Think about it though, he's still...”

“Appalling doesn't even come close to it,” Jane murmurs drily as, clearly not knowing what to do with them, she clenches and unclenches her hands. “He didn't deserve...” Stopping herself, she jerks her head up and glares at me. “He needs to be in a hospital,” she states in an adamant, no-nonsense tone. “I know you've been doing what you can for him, but, I'm sorry, I just can't see how it could possibly be enough. He... Fuck! I don't even want to begin to imagine what's going through his head at the moment and know that he'd have to be better off in a hospital setting and under the care of psychiatrists.”

“I'm not saying I disagree with you,” I reply, stretching my hands out across the table and resting them on top of Jane's, “but... It's not going to happen. And the reason...”

“Crap it's not going to happen!” Jane exclaims, pulling her hands back as, narrowing her eyes, she once again gives me the sort of look that makes me feel as though she can hardly bear to remain in my company. “Will needs...”

“To be kept safe and for the fact that he's still alive to be kept a secret for as long as possible,” I finish with a shrug. “Listen to me, Jane. I know what you're saying, I do. And, again, in a lot of respects I actually agree with you. I'm no psychiatrist and, like you, I can't imagine what he's going through, but... He's safe with me, and I think, I really do, that he's... doing as well as could possibly be expected.”

“He needs to be in a hospital,” Jane repeats, folding her arms across her chest and leaning back in her chair. “I hear what you're saying, and I'm sure he'll forever be grateful for what you've done for him, but he still needs more care and attention. Will... You've said yourself that you don't know him, but... He's a thinker, you know? He fixates on things and never seems to want to ask anyone for help and I... I'm afraid that all of this will just be too much for him and he won't know how to fight it on his own.” Pausing, her expression softens and she smiles wanly. “If it helps, I know of a hospital on the outskirts of Rome that both specialises in trauma cases and that would take him in without asking too many questions. They'd also, as I've dealt with them before, be able to keep his presence there a complete secret. It mightn't be ideal, but it'd still have to be better than this.”

Standing up, I walk over to the refrigerator and grab out another two beers. After placing one in front of Jane, I twist the lid off mine and, leaning my back against the bench, take a long drink. “There's a reason I've been keeping him with me,” I state, glancing across at Jane, “and it's a reason I still stand by. But... As all of this is really about Brandt, and I don't want to do the wrong thing by him, how about we let him make the decision...”

“I thought you said that he's not talking?” Jane mutters, giving me a suspicious look. “If that's the case, that's not a fair offer.”

“No. He's not talking,” I confirm. “That doesn't mean though that he's not capable of getting his wishes across. In fact, pretty much as of today, actually, it's something he's become reassuringly good at. If you go into the room and put your offer to him of either staying with me or going with you to the hospital in Rome, I promise you that he'll give you a response. It might only be by nodding or whatever, but he'll let you know.”

Frowning, Jane shakes her head. “I still don't think you're being fair. I get now that he's wary of both people and of possibly being touched, but you saw how he reacted to seeing me, and... And now you want me to go in and corner him in his room? I'm sorry if this disappoints you, Ethan, but I just can't do it.”

“It's okay. I asked him before I left whether he'd be okay with seeing you and... Really, Jane, it's okay. He's fine with the idea of you going to see him.”

“But...”

“I don't want to sound like a dictator, but the only way I'm letting him leave here is if he himself wants to go. And... the only way we're going to get the answer to that particular question is if you go into the bedroom and ask him.” Taking a sip of beer, I gesture with my free hand towards the bedroom. “Go on. Not wanting to push our luck by crowding him, you go in on your own while I stay here.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you're an asshole?” Jane mutters with a scowl as she pushes her chair back and stands up. “I understand why you're doing what you're doing, but you're still an asshole.”

“And as you're not the first person to tell me that, I think I'll survive,” I retort, looking pointedly towards the bedroom. “Now... Go. Before I drop this magnanimous act and just change my mind.”

Her scowl intensifying, Jane flips me the bird and walks over to the bedroom. Reaching it, she straightens her shoulders before giving the door a quick knock and disappearing inside.

Although I do honestly want what's best for Brandt, I still know that I'd feel – more in charge – better if he remained by my side and hope that I've made the right call in letting Jane present her case to him. I don't doubt that he'll both listen to her offer and think it over in some detail. If he chooses to go with her though, I don't actually quite know what I'll do. I'll accept his wishes and do what I can to facilitate it, of course I will, but at the same time...

Just... Shit. If he wants to go I'll be left with the horrible thought that instead of helping him, I've, in reality, basically been being cruel to him by making him stay with me. I'll also doubt my own judgement and, without having him to focus my attention on, possibly struggle to move forward with my investigations.

As I'm a man of my word though and do only want what's best for him, if he wants to go then that will just be that. I won't fight his decision or even argue against it.

I won't like it, but I'll both accept it and live with it.

Feeling, it just has to be said, a little sick to the stomach and not really wanting to think in too much detail as to why this may be, I dump my beer on the sink and return to the table. I've barely had time to sit down before Jane, blinking back tears and refusing to meet my eyes, walks out of the bedroom and joins me.

“He wants to stay,” she murmurs, sinking down in the same chair she'd been sitting in earlier and rubbing her hands over her face. “And before you say anything, I believe it and know that he wasn't just giving the answer he thought... you'd... want to hear.”

“Jane...” Relieved, even though I don't want to show it, by this, I shift my chair closer to Jane's and lightly rub my hand along her shoulder.

“He was awake, and lying on his side facing the door,” she continues, giving me a sad look. “While he didn't smile or anything like that, he seemed okay enough with seeing me and, as his hand was stretched out along the mattress, I placed mine a couple of inches away from it and told him that all he had to do if he wanted to leave here for the hospital was to stretch his fingers towards mine. That's all. If he reached for my hand I'd know that...” Trailing off, her lips twitch into a vague semblance of a smile and she actually laughs. “You'll like this, I think. Instead of reaching out towards me, he pulled his hand back and, just for good measure, or, I don't know, in case I was a little slow on the uptake, slid it under his pillow.”

I can't, although I don't particularly want to in case she thinks I'm either smug or playing her, help but smile at Jane's explanation of Brandt's adamant – definitely adamant – response and, before we know it, we're both chuckling. “Told you he'd let you know what he preferred,” I murmur, giving her shoulder one last squeeze as she meets my eyes and smiles. “He might be a bit of a wreck, but he's a stubborn and determined one who I like to think both wants to see this through, and... has it in him... to see it through as much as I do.” I smile hopefully. “As much as... we... do?”

“As you no doubt expected would be the case all along, you win,” Jane responds with a nod. “For the good of all of IMF, but mainly for Will, who never deserved this and who I've always liked, I'm in. I'm not sure what use I'll be, but I'm on your side now and will endeavour to do whatever it is you ask of me. Behaviour like this can't just be allowed to go on unchecked and... if you think Will is stubborn and determined, you... clearly don't know me very well.”

“You can never be too determined or too stubborn, I always say,” I reply, holding my right hand out to Jane and waiting for her to clasp it. Once she has, I give her hand a good shake and grin. “Welcome to the team.”

“Of... You, Will, me, and... Benji Dunn?”

“As he's been my tech support for the past year, not to mention the fact that I do actually trust him, yes. You... Don't have a problem with that, do you?”

“With Benji? Shit, no. I just thought he was a bit of an odd choice, that's all,” Jane responds with a shrug. “Don't worry though, I like him and have always got on well with him. Isn't... this... a bit out of his comfort zone, though? I mean, being your tech support is one thing, but flying under the radar and... risking the wrath of IMF raining down on his head? That just doesn't really sound like the Benji I know.”

“Like you, he's mainly doing it for Brandt. Apparently they're quite good friends and...” Leaning back, I smile at Jane. “Before he... uh... got all unreliable and died, Brandt was going to go and see the latest Star... Trek, I think, although don't quote me on it, movie with Benji, and... Now that he knows he's still alive, Benji has already picked up the movie on DVD so that, one of these days, it can still happen.”

“That's actually... almost nauseatingly sweet,” Jane replies, laughing. “Will... I know you said that you didn't know him, but he really is just one of the good guys, you know...”

“I think, possibly even word for word, that's what Benji said.”

“Well, he just is. If you... Uh... And by this I don't mean... you... or how he is now, but if you'd taken the time to put your preconceived ideas about him aside and got to know him, you'd have found that you liked him. He's just... one of those nice people. Nicer than either you or me, and someone that you're just better off for knowing.”

“Yet... Benji seemed to imply that he didn't have many friends,” I murmur, once again wishing that I'd actually known Brandt before this happened to him. “I don't want you to think that I'm being obtuse or anything, but... If he's so fabulous, why...”

“Because the world is full of dicks, that's why,” Jane retorts, cutting me off. “Will, he's... pretty much brilliant at whatever he does and... that just seems to rub some people up the wrong way. Analysts get the shits with him because he's as much at home in the field as he is behind a computer or attending meetings, and field agents view him like some sort of traitor because he doesn't always feel as though he has to be out in the thick of things and is just as happy staying in the office with his intel. He's also... incredibly focussed and can, if his mind's fixated on something, be a little difficult to talk to. Just like Benji though, if you make the effort to talk to him he'll open up and you'll quickly realise that everyone's wrong about him and that he... is... worth knowing. Oh! And he's great to work with as not only is he multi-skilled and can do just about anything, he's also a walking encyclopaedia of intel and if there's something he doesn't know about a target then, I'm telling you, no-one knows it.”

“You sound as though you like him a lot.”

“I do. Few people know it, but he's got a wicked sense of humour and, to use Benji and his movie as an example, he's kind.” Leaning forward, she gives me a slightly knowing look and winks. “If he was straight I'd have been all over him like a rash. Good looking, over-flowing with attributes, no obnoxious habits that I've ever been aware of, but... Oh well. Just not meant to be.”

“Still alive though,” I murmur, winking back at Jane simply to both keep the mood light and keep her talking, “which I suppose has to count for something.”

“It counts for a lot, actually. In fact, it counts for one hell of a lot,” she replies. “I don't know what he'll be like... or how much he'll have changed... when he fully recovers from this, but if you'd known him before any of this happened, Ethan, you'd have liked him. He's not... flashy, and by this I mean everyone knowing his name or latest antics, like you are, and I'll admit that it takes a bit of an effort to get to know him, but... Like I said earlier, hell, like Benji said, he's a good guy and he's worth whatever it takes to get him through this.”

“While I may not know him, I'm in this for the long haul and you can trust me to stand by him,” I respond as Jane pushes the sleeve of her leather jacket up and glances down at her watch. “I still have no idea where any of this is going to lead us, but... we're all in it together now.”

“That we are.” Sighing, Jane stands up and stretches. “This having taken far longer than I ever would have expected it to, I'm going to have to be on my way in a minute as I'm almost due to check in.”

“Which reminds me...” Standing up, I pull her weapon and phone out of my pocket and hand them over to her. “Here. And... Thanks for trusting me.”

“Curiosity, huh? It's a strong motivator,” she replies, slipping the gun into the discreet shoulder holster she's wearing under her jacket. “Now... What exactly is it you want me do? Go back to D.C. and be there as backup for Benji? Make up some bullshit leads about your whereabouts?”

“Sounds like you've already got it,” I respond, pleased at how well she already seems to be fitting in. “Benji's been going a great job, but I'd just be happier if there was someone there that he could turn to or bounce ideas off.”

Jane nods and, with a shrug, places her phone in the back pocket of her jeans. “I already know what I'm going to tell them, too.”

“You do? I'm impressed.”

“Hey! I'm not just a pretty face or a pair of tits, I'll have you know!”

“Uh... Did I say anything about...”

“No. You didn't. But you didn't have to sound so surprised, either.”

“Sorry. Now, are you going to blow me away with your plan or do I have to grovel some more first?”

“While I like the idea of making you grovel, sadly I just don't have the time,” Jane retorts with both a mock pout and a laugh. “My plan though is this... As Abraham's team is already on the ground in Lisbon, I'm going to say that the only lead that I managed to pick up on you in Paris was that you were last seen heading to Portugal. This will get me off the hook and on the first plane back to the States as the task of trying to track you will...”

“Immediately be handed to Abraham,” I grin. “Beauty, breasts... and... brains. You really are an all-rounder.”

“And you're a smart ass.”

“Maybe... But you're going to be stuck with me for a while.”

“Yeah, well... I'll survive. Somehow.” Her expression turning serious, Jane steps closer to me and closes her hand around my arm. “I really do have to be on my way, but first I want a couple of... promises... from you...”

Raising an eyebrow, I give her an inquiring look and wait for her to go on.

“One. Just... look after Will,” she states without hesitation. “Don't get impatient or frustrated with him, and... just be there for him. He already trusts you, and I can see for myself that you care about him, but... Please. Don't ever forget what he's both been through and is... still... going through. More than anything he needs a friend, not... an agent who's only it for... justice or the greater good.”

“I...”

“That wasn't meant as an insult, by the way. Your intentions are pure and I want the bastards behind this as much as you do, but... not to the detriment of Will's recovery. Just... Be there for him. That's all I ask.”

“I can certainly promise to try,” I murmur, placing my hand over hers and pressing down on it. “This, as I'm sure you already know, isn't really what I do, but I... I'll do my best.”

“I know you will,” Jane smiles as she pulls her hand away and takes another look at her watch. “Now, the second thing is... Call him Will.”

“Will?”

“Mmm... Will. Remember that whole... Jane, not Carter, thing in the car? And... how I go with... Ethan, instead of Hunt? You with me so far?”

“Uh...” I affect a confused expression. “Maybe?”

“And again I say... Smart ass!” Jane retorts with a roll of her eyes. “Look... His friends call him Will and I think, having just been... a number... for so long, that it would do him good to be called by his name. So... Are you up for it?”

“Will, yeah?”

“Very good. There's hope for you yet.”

“What can I say, I'm a quick learner,” I mutter with a smile as, frowning slightly, Jane glances towards the bedroom. “I also give you my word that I'll start calling him Will. Now... Go on. Go and say goodbye to him before getting out of here.”

“Are you sure? I...”

“I'm sure. That, and you'll only regret it if you don't.”

“You're right, of course.” Smiling, Jane nods and, with a flick of her long hair, starts to move towards the bedroom. “I'll just be a minute.”

More than a little satisfied with both how well everything's gone and the good vibe I'm getting from Agent Carter, I walk into the kitchen and busy myself with putting the empty beer bottles in the bin while she says her farewells to... Will. There's a still long way to go, and I'm not even sure I know where exactly it is we're going with it all, but, seriously... So far, so good. Will's getting better, we have a team, and I think it's fair to say that we all have a cause we're devoted to. Whether it's keeping it together and fighting, or searching for justice, or just wanting to do whatever it takes to help... We've all got a role to play and I'm confident that it's one we're all dedicated to.

“He's going to make it, you know,” Jane murmurs as, sidling up behind me, she surprises me not only because I hadn't even heard her leave the bedroom, but because she also slides her arms around my waist and briefly presses up against my back. “I can see it, the determination and... trust... in his eyes.”

“Of course he's going to make it,” I reply, turning around and, because I get the impression it's what she actually wants, giving Jane a quick hug. “We wouldn't have it any other way, would we?”

“At least I know he's in good hands,” Jane responds, hugging me back before shifting free and beginning to walk towards the door. “I hate knowing what he's been through,” she adds over her shoulder as I follow her through the living area, “just as I also hate knowing how long and hard the road he has ahead of him is, but... At the same time I'm just so glad that he's alive.”

“And I'm glad that I listened to both Benji and Br... Uh... Will and took the risk of approaching you,” I murmur, smiling at Jane as I step in front of her and open the door. “So... Unless there's anything else you're wanting to say, I'll just let Benji know that you're on side and that he can expect you back in D.C. within the day.”

“That sounds about right,” Jane replies as she steps out onto the street. “If you want me you'll get in contact with me through Benji, yeah?”

“For now I think that'll probably be for the best.”

“Yeah... Me too.” Sighing, Jane gives me a weak smile and starts to walk off. “Well... You know where to find me.”

“I do. And... Thanks again...” Knowing that she just wants to get moving without any drawn out farewells, I don't bother watching her until she reaches the corner and just close the door. I then, for no real purpose other than I simply want to see him, head over to the bedroom. Walking in to the room, I find Will sitting on the edge of the mattress and, as he looks up at me through clear blue eyes, I sit down next to him and smile.

“So... It appears that we've now got ourselves a team...”

~*~*~*~


	7. Chapter 7

~*~*~*~

The sound of movement catching my attention as it always does, I look up for the laptop screen and watch Will as he walks out of the bedroom and heads in to the bathroom. It not yet being seven in the morning, I tell myself that it's still too early to dump his hardly exciting breakfast of toast and yet more water on him and, after a quick stretch to loosen up my muscles, go back to my research. Benji coming through with the goods as usual – and which, okay, I may just be beginning to take a little for granted – I'm currently reading over the profiles of the other three agents that made up Will's team in Berlin in an attempt to see if there's anything about any of them that should cause me either concern or interest. 

So far though, and I've been at it for half an hour now, there's been nothing worthy of so much as a second thought and, as I'm becoming increasingly used to, I'm beginning to wonder if I'm just wasting my time. They're just three, run-of-the-mill agents who, while perfectly adept at what they do, will never set the world alight or, I suspect, even get to be in charge of their own team. One, Maria Baker, I actually worked a mission with a couple of years ago. Yet, while I can remember what she looked like and that she had a laugh like a slightly maniacal hyaena, I have no recollection of her personality or what she was like to work with at all. The other two, while I haven't worked with them personally I've known others that have and, like Baker, they just seem unmemorable. Good enough agents in their own way, and the sort you wouldn't be too bothered by if you ended up with them on your team, but... unremarkable. So unremarkable, in fact, that I just can't see them having had any involvement in either any of the leaks or in the faking of Will's death at all.

It was a long shot. I knew that when I settled on the idea of wanting to know just who it was he'd worked his last mission with, but, not knowing where the next lead will ultimately pop up from, it had to be done. Where to next, however... Well. That's not a question I currently have an answer for. Something will come up though, I'm sure of it. It, admittedly usually when you're least expecting it and are getting ready to throw – a tantrum – in the towel, always does. The sitting around doing next to nothing while a seemingly never ending array of different size question marks circle around in my head is frustrating, and I know I won't be able to keep it up indefinitely, but for now at least, I'm okay with it.

I really am.

Questions might be going unanswered, and I might soon snap and start climbing the walls from inactivity, but, having to take the bad with the good, I know that things could be a lot, lot worse. Will's improving by the hour, we now have two... sources... to assist us back at HQ, I actually slept for six hours straight, which for me is nothing short of a miracle, last night, and, we're getting there, we really are. I don't, although I'm not denying that it wouldn't make for a nice change, expect miracles where both Will and his recovery are concerned, and know that regardless of how promising the signs are that I'll always have to treat him with kid gloves. Jane was right in her thinking that he should be under the care of professionals. I mean, of course she was. While I might still have my head buried in the sand in respect to the true nature of everything he's been through, if nothing else six months of his life were taken from him and I quite literally don't know how he's managed to cope with everything that's been going on as well as he has been. Maybe it's been down to the drugs leaving his system and simply being too weak and sick to know any better. Maybe, now that he's showing definite signs of physical improvement and is no longer feverish or confined to bed, he'll start to show signs of mentally unravelling and I'll end up regretting my adamant wish to keep him with me.

Honestly, I just don't know what the future holds. From what might happen during the next hour to where we might be in two days time. I just wouldn't have a clue.

Other, that is, than I'm confident we'll be together.

Jane trusted the care of her friend to me, Benji's convinced that I can offer him everything that he needs, Will himself doesn't seem to feel any pressing need to get away from me, and...

All I have to do is validate their faith in me.

That's all.

No big ask, really.

Just give myself over unconditionally to the fight at hand and go with the flow.

Recently this has been something I've only ever done on my own, and with only myself to care about, but...

If you don't adapt, you die. Right?

If this is a fight I have to share with others, then so be it.

So long as the leak is stamped out and Will gets his life back, whatever happens along the way will be worth it. The boredom, the self-doubt, the worry, the going nowhere research, the gnawing concern for a man that I may never really know, the bitterness felt at knowing that I've basically given my life to an organisation that seems riddled with moles and self-serving assholes... All of it. It'll all be worth it once we reach the end.

I just wish I had a better idea of how we're going to get there, that's all.

Deciding that I may as well take a break by catching up on some of the online news sites, I close down the document I'd been reading and am just bringing up the New York Times on the screen when Will walks out of the bathroom. Looking up, I watch as, instead of returning to the bedroom as I expected him to, he makes his way into the kitchenette. Dressed as always in a pair of baggy, old-style pyjamas that look as though -- despite the fact I actually put thought into picking them when I ordered them online and only went with one size below my own – they're two sizes too big for him, he looks a far cry from the black clad... object... that was delivered to my hotel room the other night and, although I'd never say it aloud, I actually find it a vast improvement. Yes, the pyjamas are unfashionable and, style wise, most likely far too old fashioned for him, but he looks comfortable – innocent, even – in them and that's really all that matters. His body's covered, he knows he can have a shower and put on a clean pair at any time, and I like to think that they're soft enough not to aggravate the still healing wounds on his back.

They're also, and, again, this isn't something I'm going to give voice to any time soon, somewhat on the... cute... side and I like knowing that there's at least something he's capable of feeling comfortable in.

Not sure as to either what he's doing or whether I was perhaps wrong in not having gotten his breakfast, I watch Will as he passes by the table and am just toying with the idea of getting up and asking if I can get him anything when the sound of the fridge door opening stops me. As my back is to the kitchenette, I can't tell whether he's just getting a bottle of water or is looking for something to eat and have to forcefully control the urge to jump to my feet and just take over. I suspect he wouldn't care, and may even be waiting for me to take charge, but given that this is the first time he's been in the kitchen I just want to let him go without rushing in and interfering. 

Initiative. It's all about initiative. And if Will suddenly wants to browse the contents of the refrigerator for something that takes his fancy, then... more power to him.

Smiling to myself, I turn my attention to the headlines filling the screen and listen, with increasing bemusement, as the fridge door is opened and closed not once, but four times. This, the constant open-close, open-close of the door gets to me a little but, with effort and because I don't want Will to regret his tentative show of independence, I let it go. The contents of the fridge not exactly being that exciting or, for that matter, extensive, I wouldn't have a clue as to what he's looking for and can only hope that he's not going to be too disappointed when, invariably, he doesn't find it. Cooking being far from a forte of mine, and food in general being more of a necessity than a pleasure, the only things in the fridge are pretty much plain old staples. Beer, butter, cheese, water, jam, milk, a few random pieces of fruit, and, simply because he seemed to like it when I gave it to him in the pharmacy, a selection of chocolate bars. I eat only when my stomach tells me to and, not exactly being fussy, I've been making do with tinned soups, cheese sandwiches and toast. Will, not having had any say in the matter, has, with the addition of fruit and, when I remember it, chocolate, been existing on the same fare and, assuming he's now reached the point where he'd like a bit more variety, I hope he can somehow find a way to let me know what he'd like. Shopping online, and with same day delivery, having been a Godsend, I'm more than happy to buy him whatever he'd like and only have to be pointed in the right direction to... click 'buy' and make it happen.

Thinking that maybe shoving the laptop, with the supermarket site already up on the screen, at him might perhaps be one way of letting him choose what he'd like for himself, I open up another browser and have just finished typing in the web address when, having finally concluded his perusal of the refrigerator, Will walks over to the table and takes a seat in the chair opposite mine. Surprised, and maybe even just a little bit delighted by this, I look up and smile over at him as, clearly not having finished with his surprises, he slides a bottle of water across the tabletop to me.

“Thanks,” I murmur as I pick the bottle up and, despite not being particularly thirsty, take a drink. Returning it to the table, I notice that Will's taken it upon himself to get his own breakfast – of sorts – and that laid out in front of him he has a bottle of water, an apple, and a Mars Bar. Four items, when you include the bottle of water he gave me, equals... the refrigerator door, especially if you're uncertain about what you want and whether you should... share, being open and shut four times. “It was kind of you to think of me,” I add, gesturing at his... breakfast. “Are you sure that's all you want though? If you'd like I could...”

A quick shake of his head as he picks up the apple and takes a bite killing the rest of my question, I shrug my acceptance and, wanting to make the most of both his apparent alertness and... willingness to branch out, reach for my iPad. “While it's up to you, of course,” I state, turning the tablet on and opening up the folder I'd sent over to it from the laptop last night, “I thought you might like to have a look over our, as in... both mine and yours, IMF personnel files. Again, it's up to you and you certainly don't have to if you're not interested, but... I don't know, I just thought you might be a bit curious about who it is you've found yourself stuck with...” Returning the iPad to the table, I slide it over to Will and watch as, taking it from me without hesitation, he turns it around to face him and glances with apparent interest down at the screen. “Of course, if you already remember your own details and just find mine either boring or... uh... over-rated, there's always the internet and, seriously, just feel free to look up whatever you want. As I've got the computer, you can even keep it with you if you'd like.”

Nodding, Will leans back in his chair and, as he continues to eat his apple, gives every impression of losing himself in the world of information offered by the tablet. 

More than just a little bit pleased with how well things are, both currently and unexpectedly, going, I decide to leave Will to his reading – and peculiar breakfast – in peace and, after closing the laptop screen and having another mouthful of water, stand up. “If you want me, which, well, clearly you don't as you've come across all self-sufficient this morning and got your own breakfast,” I murmur lightly, “I'm just going to have a quick shower. Oh... And... If you're still not up to talking but want to ask me anything, just use the Notes app to type out your questions. Don't feel that you have to, and, please, don't think that I'm pushing you as that's not my intention at all, but... Will... It's just there if you want it, and... Seriously, you can ask me anything...”

Not wanting to push my luck by waiting around to see if I manage to score another nod out of him, I walk into the bedroom and grab some clean clothes before heading into the bathroom and shutting the door. Stripping off, I turn the water on in the shower and, once it's to the right temperature, get in. Feeling good enough about where things are at right at this moment, I don't – despite having told Will that I was only going to be 'quick' – hurry my shower and only get out when my allotted ten minutes of hot water is up. I then, also at a leisurely pace, dry myself, clean my teeth, shave, and get dressed before opening the door and returning to the living area. Noticing that Will is no longer sitting at the table, in fact, isn't even in sight, I frown and, feeling a lot less refreshed and confident than I did a mere second or two ago, I make my way over to the bedroom. The door being half-open as it always is, I pause just long enough to rap my knuckles against the wood in a token knock and, as a queasy feeling settles over my stomach, walk in.

Will, lying on the bed, curled on his side and with his back to the door, doesn't rouse himself at my arrival and, not knowing what it is that's caused him to... come so very badly undone, I feel at a dead loss in terms of how to react. Until now – just as all agents, present and past, do by pure survival instinct alone – he's always slept facing the door. Even if he's only been resting he's, again, solely in order to keep a watchful eye on the room's only entrance point, always positioned himself facing the door.

Yet now he's got his back to it.

And I think, although I'm far too gutless to move any closer in case I accidentally confirm it, he may even be quietly sobbing.

Instinct, although it doesn't fall within the realm of my comfort zone and is usually one of those things I generally find best left to others, tells me to go over to Will and try to comfort him. Knowing, however, that this would have to involve physical contact and how there's a very good chance being touched is the last thing he currently needs, I hesitate over making a move and just, all the time feeling more and more like a voyeur, dither helplessly in the doorway. 

He was fine... Actually, he was better than fine only fifteen minutes ago, and now he's...

Hell. He's the worst I've seen him. Trembling. Sobbing.

Broken.

“I...” Unable to think of anything to say that wouldn't just sound like a meaningless platitude, I shake my head and, in yet another gutless move, retreat out of the bedroom and, hoping to see something on the iPad to explain his rapid deterioration, hurry over to the table. Picking up the tablet, I turn it on and watch with both horror and disbelief as the web page that immediately fills the screen explains everything with an unwanted, not to mention, graphic clarity.

Fuck.

Just... Fuck.

It's blunt, and to the point, and it sums the situation up perfectly.

Fuck. Fuck, and just for good measure and because it currently strikes me as a good idea, fuck some more.

Having finished reading our personnel files, Will opened up Safari, went into bookmarks, and, most likely in the hope of finding a few news sites listed there, promptly stumbled across the website for La Fée Noir.

And not just the home page either.

No. Of course not. Because I both had the page bookmarked and had had the iPad remember the password to the site, he opened it up directly on his page. The one I'd used the photos on to compare them to the one IMF had of him on his file. 

The one that... lists out his vital stats like he's nothing more than an object, a commodity that can be hired, abused, and then simply returned.

The one with... all the naked, and graphically posed photos.

The one that...

… Now has a banner reading 'Currently Unavailable' across it and a box where you can enter your email address if you'd like to sign up to be alerted to... his return.

I...

Damn!

Hardly believing – of all the dumb, unfortunate luck he had to find this of all pages – what it is I'm looking at, I sink numbly down onto the sofa and, as seems to be becoming the story of my life, don't quite know what to do. While seeing himself, laid out like this on the world wide web, would have been enough of a shock in itself, not just because of the nature of the photographs but also because of the memories they would have instantly installed in him, there's also the matter of the... alert function... and the club's apparent delusion of one day getting him back. It's not – not while I have breath in my body – going to happen, but that doesn't mean Will has to know that. To him it probably read as a threat, if not a promise that all of this really is only a ruse and that his return to La Fée Noir is inevitable. I know that it isn't, and suspect the club only has it up there in order to 'save face' and to keep quiet on the fact that he'd actually been taken right out from under their noses, but, again, there's no reason for Will to share my confidence in this. The club was his home, his... entire world for so long that to see that they believed he'd be back would have been nothing short of devastating to him. To have the belief that he was free to be cruelly taken from him, it...

Well, while it might explain his reaction, it also sickens me and it goes without saying that I wish I'd never bookmarked the damn page.

Just... That's another thing. What must have gone through his head when he realised that it was on my iPad, that I'd... clearly saved it for some reason, and... had possibly even gone back to look at it or to... get my rocks off on the visual proof of his debasement...

Again, he probably thought it was all a huge joke being played at his expense. As if being tortured all in the name of sexual gratification wasn't bad enough, he was now in the hands of an even bigger psychopath whose idea of a good time was getting his hopes up before, when he least expected it, pulling the rug out from beneath his feet and leaving him right back – with just a few more emotional instead of physical scars to show for it – where he started.

Groaning, I glance over my shoulder at the bedroom and, while a voice in my head tells me that I have to go to Will and, if need be, babble reassurance like I've never babbled before, I... I can't. I just can't bring myself to go to him because I'm so terribly wary of saying the wrong thing and making things even worse for him. He needs to be told, of course he does, and... I will. In time, when I have some form of hopefully believable proof to back my apologetic babble up with, I'll go to him and try to undo some of the – cruel – damage I accidentally caused.

First though, and if this isn't a fucking award winning case of better late than never then I don't know what is, I have to protect Will from the thought of there being... sick freaks... out there who can access the site and stare at his naked body whenever they Goddamn please. And to do that, I need both my phone and Benji.

Dropping, with a look of disgust, the iPad on to the sofa cushion next to me, I reach for the phone – the one Will gave back to me last night once Jane had gone and he was convinced that he no longer needed the reassurance offered by it – and, despite knowing that it's the middle of the night in D.C., dial Benji's number.

“Uh... Ethan?” Benji mumbles sleepily as he finally picks up the phone on the eighth ring. “Do you...”

“Yes, I do know what time it is,” I interrupt with a sigh. “And, look... I'm sorry...”

“I'd actually been going to ask... Do you... need something?” Benji states, yawning. “I mean, of course I know you know what time it is. And... that you wouldn't be calling at this hideous hour if you didn't need something. So... Come on, Ethan. Tell Uncle Benji just what it is you need...”

“Uncle Benji?” I mutter, marvelling not only at the peculiar way Benji just used to refer to himself, but also how he always seems to have the uncanny knack of being able, without even trying, at that, to improve my mood. “Uh... No. Just... No. If you promise never to call yourself that again I'll... write this... once-off lapse as a by-product of just having been woken up and... we need never to speak of it again.”

“As I can't say I know where it came from either, that may well be for the best,” Benji retorts with a snort of laughter. “Now... Seeing as you've got me up, what can I do for you, Ethan? Is... Oh God! Is it Will? Has something...”

“Will...” Shit. How to put this without causing Benji to lose focus and have a meltdown? “He... Will's had a bit of a shock, but... Uh... He's still here and, with your help, he's going to be fine.”

“My help? What can I... Never mind. Just tell me what you need and I'll find a way to make it happen.”

“Actually, as it's something right up your alley, just... Chill.”

“Chill? You basically just said that Will needs my help, and... You want me to...”

“Chill. Yes. Just... Chill, and listen to me.”

“But...”

'Uh-uh. You can do this, Benji. In fact, I suspect it's something you could even do in your sleep.”

“Ah! It's something involving computers, then,” Benji exclaims with relief. “If it's something you think I could do in my sleep, I'm thinking that it's going to have to involve the use of a keyboard, and... If that's the case, I'm your man!”

“I know you are. Now... Listen. I'm going to give you both a web address and a password to access it, and... I want you to take it down.”

“Take it down? You mean... crash it?”

“I don't care what you call it, or even how you go about it. I just want it gone.”

“Momentarily, or... for good?”

“Permanently. I want it down... or crashed... for as long as you can manage it.”

“Okay. I can certainly do that. Should I ask what the...”

“You'll see when I give you the address. Oh... And, Benji? For your own sake, don't take the time to have a look around it. Just... You should get the gist from the home page and, trust me on this, you don't need to see any more.”

“It involves Will, doesn't it?”

“Yes. It does.”

“As in... what was being done to him before you...”

“Yes. It does,” I repeat, cutting Benji off before he gets himself too worked up. “And... you don't want to see it any more than Will wants you, or anyone for that matter, to see it. So... Please. Just focus on the task at hand and get rid of the horrible thing.”

“Give me what I need then and I'll be straight on to it,” Benji replies solemnly. “Not wanting perverts wanking over my friend, it'll be the fastest piece of coding I've ever written and, once it's done, I'll give you a call back so you can check for yourself that it's gone, yeah...”

“Sounds perfect,” I reply before, simply because I want him to get on with it, giving Benji both the web address and password and ending the call.

Dropping the phone on to my lap, I lean back against the sofa and gaze up at the ceiling. Although I feel better for having spoken to Benji and know that he'll easily be able to do what I asked him, I still feel... drained. Maybe even a little bit empty. Things had seemed to be going so well this morning, that to have them come this spectacularly undone just... pisses me off. That, and it yet again makes me doubt my ability to be able to successfully offer Will what he needs to recover. He, and this, as it's not something I've ever really had to deal with before, is the sticking point I need to get my head fully around, isn't just simply injured and in need of either painkillers or a fresh bandage here or there. No. He's traumatised, vulnerable, and, all in all, a bit of wreck. While I can, and hopefully have been, look after him physically, what I'm not so sure about is keeping him together mentally. Straight torture I can, having been there myself, sympathise with, but what he's been through makes broken bones or the loss of a finger nail seem like a walk in the park. To have had no end in sight while his body was subjected to...

Not wanting to go there, I swallow hard and clench my fingers around the denim of jeans as a sense of bitter determination settles over me.

I may not be doing a very good job of things, but nor am I going to give up. If Will manages to come back from this... setback... within twenty-four hours, then the very least I can do is buckle down and keep on fighting by his side. I owe it, I think, not only to Will himself but also to Benji and Jane who I've managed to convince to travel down this path with me. Hopefully, with any luck it might even one day prove to have been worth it. 

My cell phone suddenly ringing causing me to jerk upright, I grab for it and, bringing it up to my ear, grunt a greeting, “Hunt.”

“Well, that's a relief then,” Benji drawls. “For a second there I thought I might have accidentally hit the number for my local pizza bar.”

“It's too late in the night where you are for a comedy routine,” I mutter, “so quit trying to be amusing and tell me what you're calling for. Did you run into a problem with...”

“Nope. No problem. Getting rid of that piece of shit site is a cakewalk for someone of my skills,” Benji replies with a smug sounding laugh. “Having had a quick look around in the background though, I can not only take the site down but also, as their security is lax at best, their server and, even better, the extra backup they keep in the cloud. In other words, if you're willing to give me the go ahead, I'll be able to take it down in a way that it will... stay... down. I mean, I'm not saying it'll rub all the photos out of existence, but... what it will achieve is a massive headache for their web technician if he tries to put it back up again as, seriously, Ethan, it'll all just be gone.”

“Do it,” I order with a grim, thin lipped smile. “Do whatever you have to in order to make it disappear. I know we might not be able to get all of the photos that are already out there, but... this is one hell of a good start.”

“I thought you'd like it,” Benji murmurs. “And... There. It's done.”

“Just like that?” I query, surprised at the speed in which he's made it all happen.

“Well, as I was pretty confident, you see, that you'd give me the go ahead, I may have had all the coding written up and just needed the... do it... command from you to hit the button and make it go live.”

“You're brilliant, Benji, you really are,” I respond, my admiration for the tech expert being so great right at this very moment that if he was standing here in front of me I don't think I'd be able to stop myself from hugging him. “Seriously... What you just did went above and beyond what I'd asked of you and I just want you to know how... grateful... I am. Not to mention how grateful Will's going to be when I tell him.”

“As I think I've told you during previous calls,” Benji responds, “if either of you ever need me, I'm here for you. I may not be a field agent, but I... I'm good enough at what I do to hopefully be able to do whatever it is you might need of me.”

“Make that... more than... good enough,” I state as, picking the iPad up, I bring up the web page and see, both for myself and to my great delight, that it's no longer in existence and that in its place is a black screen with the words 'Closed For Business' scrolling across it in a small, white font. “Oh... Hey. I like what you've done with the site, by the way.”

“While there were quite a few things that I would have liked to have put, in the end I decided to err on the side of simplicity.”

“Well. It's brilliant. And... Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Now, as much as I love talking to you, Ethan, is there anything else you need me to do or can I go back to bed? Jane's due to land in five or so hours and I'm hoping to be able to meet her at the airport.”

“If that's the case, I won't keep you for a second longer. Thanks again, Benji, and... Good night.”

Terminating the call, I place the phone on the coffee-table and, standing up, carry the iPad over to the bedroom. Reaching it, I knock on the door more out of habit more than anything and walk into the room. Will, I don't think has moved since I was last here three-quarters of an hour ago and is still lying curled on his side and with his hands cupped over his face. He seems to have stopped crying though which, as I walk around to his side of the bed and crouch down, I take to be a good sign.

“Hey there,” I murmur quietly as I gently place the iPad on the mattress by his chest. “I'm... You have no idea how sorry I am that you had to see that and want you to know that the only reason I even had the site bookmarked was because, as I'm sure I already mentioned to you, I needed to refer to it when I thought that I somehow recognised you. For what it's worth, and I suspect it's exceptionally little, I'd forgotten it was even there and want you to know that I'd only ever accessed it that one time and had never been back to it. But... Uh... That's not really why I'm here...” Trailing off, I push the iPad a little closer to Will and swipe my finger across the screen in order to wake it back up.

“Look,” I whisper as he continues to – play dead – hide his face behind his hands and, in general, give absolutely no indication of acknowledging that I'm even in the room with him. In fact, he's so still that for all I honestly know he could be asleep and not hearing a word that I'm saying. “I asked Benji to take the site down for me and... he not only did that but he also wiped out the club's server and cloud backup as well. I... I know it doesn't undo the fact that... uh... it even existed in the first place, or... the shock you must have felt when you saw it, but... It's gone. Will... You know as well as I do that Benji's a technical whiz when it comes to this sort of stuff, and this time he really came through. Just... Listen to me. The site's gone, it's not going back up any time soon, and I... I'm sorry. I'm just so fucking sorry that you had to see that and hope, even if you can't forgive me, that you're able to move on from it. But... Uh... Not wanting to intrude any more than I already have, I'll just leave the iPad here for you and you can have a look for yourself whenever you're feeling up to it.”

Standing up, I somehow resist the urge to throw caution to the winds by placing my hand on Will's shoulder and, with a sigh, start to walk out of the room. “Again... I... I'm sorry. I'm just... so... sorry...”

~*~*~*~


	8. Chapter 8

~*~*~*~

Reaching the front door, I jog on the spot by way of a half-assed attempt at cooling down and, it clearly being the day for unbecoming moves on my part, hesitate over digging the key out of my pocket and returning to – Will – the flat. Not content – hey, the way I've always seen it is, if you're going to do something, do it well – with giving him the means to see himself naked on the internet, I then didn't do a very good job of comforting him before, with my tail between my legs and feeling as though by staying I was only risking making things even worse, just calling it momentarily quits and leaving him to it.

So... Yeah. Go me.

Sure, I stood in the doorway of the bedroom and told the crumpled form on the bed that I was going for a run. I even, because that's me all over, a fucking hero, returned my iPhone to the bedside table and told him that, if I'd crossed the line or he truly didn't want anything to do with me any more, he was free to use it to contact Benji.

And then, dressed in the hardly conducive to running outfit of jeans and a long sleeved shirt, I just... ran. Both figuratively and literally. 

I ran from the suddenly claustrophobic confines of the flat, and I ran because, after so many days of enforced inactivity, I just felt as though I had to be on the move. I ran... because it was something I needed to do and because it's something I've always turned to when I've needed to get my head together. I didn't run to... run away.

Will... He's such an unknown entity to me that, in a way, he frightens me. No. That's not exactly right. I'm... frightened... for him. I want to help him and to do what's best for him, but I'm afraid that it's not enough and that, ultimately, I'll only do him more harm than good. Yes. He conveyed to Jane that, and this can only be viewed as a sign of trust, he wants to stay with me, but... That was yesterday. Now though... Now that he's hurting and I've failed so spectacularly to be of any use to him, I...

I just don't know.

Am... I doing the right thing?

Or has my obsession with wanting to stamp out corruption in IMF blinded me to what's happening right in front of me?

I keep telling myself that Will is a very damaged and very mentally fragile man who, above and beyond everything else, I'm committed to helping. He's not a... cause, or a direct route... to the corruption that I despise so much. He's just a man who has been through something completely horrific and who needs all the help, patience, and care that he can get.

I tell myself this but, despite not being an idiot, I don't always seem to remember it. Not used to either the role of care-giver, or of having someone so reliant on me for such an extended period of time, I can't help but think that I'm failing him. I'm trying, but I just don't know if it's enough.

Leaving was cowardly of me. I know that. I should have stayed and just... been there for him. Even if he didn't want to hear my apologetic rambling I still should have stayed in the flat just so he could have known I was there for him if he needed me.

But no.

I ran.

And I ran, and I ran, and then, regardless of the pain in my feet and the strange looks I was getting from the people I passed, I ran some more.

And now, after having ran through the streets of Pigalle and Montmartre for over an hour, I'm back and feeling no more confident or in charge of myself than I was before I left.

Noticing a little old man walking his little old dog – who just happens to be looking resplendent in his little knitted doggy jumper that looks like the French flag – heading down the street towards me, I sigh and quickly let myself in the front door. In something of a replay of what happened when I returned to the flat with Jane yesterday, the first thing I notice is the wide open bedroom door and empty bed before, as my stomach clenches with nerves, finding Will sitting in the armchair in the living area. There is, however, one notable difference today in that, to my surprise, he's actually dressed in clothing, jeans and the same grey shirt of mine that he wore for his trip to the doctor's, as opposed to the pyjamas I've become so used to seeing him in. He also looks fresh from a shower and his blue eyes display an alertness to them that I haven't seen before.

Unsure as to how I should react to the change in both his appearance and demeanour, I flash him a noncommittal smile and, suddenly feeling dry mouthed, make a beeline for the refrigerator. Wrenching the door open, I grab a bottle of water and have just finished gulping down half of it when, to my absolute astonishment, Will materialises behind me and slowly holds out his right hand as though he wants me to shake it.

“Please. Allow me to introduce myself,” he states in a voice that's both soft and hoarse from lack of use as, quickly pushing my shock to the side, I put the bottle down and take his hand in mine. “My name's William Brandt and I... I'm very pleased to meet you.”

“I...” Clasping his hand, I give it a gentle shake and, as he hesitantly lifts his head to look fleetingly into my eyes, smile. “Ethan Hunt,” I declare, reluctantly releasing Will's hand not because I want to but because I don't want to make him regret his... bravery... by holding on to it either too tightly or for too long. “And, you know something? I'm really rather glad to meet you too.”

A brief, blink-and-you'd-miss-it smile flitting across his lips, Will looks away and takes a hesitant step back. “I... I'm sorry for... For not having talked. I...”

“Shhh...” Still smiling, I place my hand lightly on his arm and guide him over to the sofa. “Don't... You don't have to apologise for anything. While I'm not going to lie by saying I wasn't getting heartily sick of the sound of my own voice, I still think we've somehow been managing well enough these past few days, don't you?”

Nodding again, Will sits down on the sofa and, leaning forward, picks up the iPad from the coffee-table. “I have something for you,” he murmurs, bringing up what looks to be an online storage site on the screen before holding the tablet up and waiting for me to take it from him. “My... My research. This is what I was able to come up with before...”

“Are you talking about the stolen tech that you stayed behind in Berlin for?” I query, taking the iPad from him and glancing down at the screen. “If so, the Secretary has already closed the file on...”

“Not just Berlin,” Will interrupts as, standing back up, he touches the tablet's screen and brings up a folder of documents. “The... I... The Secretary, he had me researching the leaks. I...” Grimacing from the effort of talking, he lowers his gaze and takes a couple of steps away from me. “I thought you might be interested in reading it,” he adds in the sort of dejected tone that makes me wonder if he thinks I'm going to either laugh at his attempt at assistance or just dismiss it outright. “But... Uh...”

“Hey... Of course I'm interested in reading it,” I reply, trying to counter his doubt with a reassuring smile. Interested? Dear God, of course I'm fucking interested. In fact, I don't even know what's currently exciting me more – Will having found the courage to speak, or the thought of sitting down and reading the information on the screen in front of me. “As you may already know, this, that is, the subject of leaks within the agency is one that was already dear to my heart before... Well... Let's just say it was a pet hate of mine even before you came along and... uh.. fell in my lap and that, because of both this and my promise to you that, regardless of what it takes, we'll get to the bottom of this one way or another, I'd be delighted to look over your research. In fact...” Pausing, I tap open the first document and, as I quickly look over the neatly laid out report filling the screen, let out a low, impressed whistle. “In fact, I think it's already fair to say you've covered things in more detail than I ever could have come up with.”

“It was my job,” Will replies in a voice barely above that of a whisper as, cringing, he continues to gaze down at the floor. “One that I... I clearly didn't do very well.”

“Whoa...” Alarmed that he could be thinking... what it is I think he's thinking, I shake my head and, in order to give him my full attention, place the iPad down on the coffee-table. “Will... Come on. Don't. Just don't do this to yourself. What happened wasn't your fault and you're not to ever think that way.”

“I... I should have...”

“If the amount of documents you have in storage are anything to go by, the bastard seems to have been doing this for far longer than I was aware of, and... while it pains me to admit it, this kind of implies that he has to be pretty good at it.”

“It was my job,” Will all but whimpers as, looking as though he'd be perfectly happy if the floor opened up beneath him and swallowed him whole, he rubs his hand over his face. “I should have...”

“It might have been your job to either pinpoint him or flush him out,” I murmur, as quite unable to bear witness to Will's disintegration, I walk over to him and place my hand on his upper arm, “but... Think about it. It was also his job to always stay one step ahead of you. You're a good agent, Will, and a credit to IMF, but... We all have bad days. I mean... Shit. Look at me. I never suspected that mother fucker Musgrave and, hey, his betrayal very nearly killed me.”

“I...” Dropping his hand, Will lifts his head and gives me a look that can only really be described as... surprised. “Musgrave... Yes. I... I remember. He...”

“Isn't something I particularly want to talk about,” I finish flatly. “Other, that is, to reiterate that you're not the only one to have been sold out by someone you should have been able to trust and, again, you're not to blame yourself for any of it. Now, while this isn't a term I ever like to use, Will... You're the victim here and you can't go wasting your time on blaming yourself. Trust me. I gave it, the good old blame-game, plus just a bit of both self-loathing and self-doubt on the side for good measure, a go after the whole Musgrave, Davian, Rabbit's Foot debacle, and... Seriously. It didn't achieve a fucking thing.”

“I know,” Will murmurs with a nod as he once again drops his gaze to settle on the general vicinity of my chest. “It... It's just hard.”

“I know it is,” I reply, giving his shoulder a squeeze as, having reached the conclusion that this is one of those conversations that could go around in circles for close to forever if I don't draw a line in the sand and put a stop to it, I step back and start to walk into the kitchen. “Seeing as it's pretty obvious I've got a lot of reading in front of me,” I add, coming to a stop in front of the coffee-machine and giving it a pat, “I thought I might make myself a coffee before getting stuck in to it. What about you, Will, would you perhaps like one too?”

“I...” A peculiar, unreadable expression flitting over Will's face, he joins me by the coffee-machine and, although he opens his mouth as though he's about to say something, nothing comes out and, looking embarrassed by this, he drops his gaze to the counter top in preference to facing me.

“Will?” Not used to an offer of coffee resulting in this sort of reaction, I frown and, not surprisingly, wish I hadn't even asked. “If you don't like coffee or... uh... don't even want to talk or are finding it too difficult, please don't think...”

Shaking his head, Will gives me a pained look. “I want... I want to talk,” he mumbles, blushing, “and... if you're willing to listen to me then I... Uh... I need to keep practising...”

“If it helps, you never have to worry about whether I'm willing to listen to you as, and feel free to take my word on this, that's simply a given,” I reply with both a grin and a small shrug. “You're my equal, Will, and you're never to think any different. But... Please. Only talk if it's what you want to do and... even then... only do it if your throat feels up to it and it's not causing you pain. I'm happy to listen to you, of course I am, but I'm just as happy to read notes written on either paper or the iPad if that's what you'd prefer. So, again... Please don't feel as though you have to put yourself out on my behalf.”

“I... need to keep practising,” Will repeats huskily. “Thank you, though. I... I appreciate both your patience and... your willingness to work with me. But... It... It's not the... talking... that caused me to...” Sighing, his blush intensifies and he gives me another pained look. “It's... This is pathetic, I know that, but... It was the offer of a coffee, that... That just... got to me.”

Too bemused by this to come up with a better response, I arch my brow and murmur, “Coffee? Really? If you don't like...”

“I can't remember when I last had a cup,” Will states, hanging his head in apparent shame. “That... That's why I'm... losing it. I can't remember when I last had a cup of coffee and it... it's just taken me aback.”

“So I take it, then, that you'd love a cup?” I respond as, really not wanting to add to Will's obvious distress by making an issue out of his – very, very – sad confession, I grab two cups and simply start to make the coffee. Maybe it's stupid of me, or possibly even somewhat... blinkered, but... I'd honestly never spared a thought as to what his diet might have been like during the long months of his... captivity. I know the doctor said that he was slightly malnourished, and I could see that for myself in the condition he was in physically, yet... As to what he might have been fed? It's just one of those – many – things I'd never even considered.

And, to be honest, wish I wasn't having to consider now.

“I... I'd love a cup,” he confirms in that quiet, hoarse voice of his that, although it's a little hard to hear, I've already grown used to. “That... That would be really lovely, thank you.”

“How do you take?”

“White, with...”

“Two?”

“Uh... Yes. How did you guess?” Will queries, looking surprised at my... amazing skills of deduction.

“I took the chocolate to mean that you've got a sweet tooth,” I explain, smiling as I walk past him in order to grab the milk out of the fridge. “If, however, I'm wrong...”

“No. You're right,” he murmurs as a hint of a smile tugs all too briefly on his lips. “I do indeed have a sweet tooth, so... Well done, Sherlock. You got it in one.”

Smirking, I put on a little show of smugness by pretending to buff my fingernails against my chest. “It's an art form, what more can I say... Actually...” I give Will an appraising look and, after quickly reaching the conclusion that trying to treat him as normally as possible is the way to go, add, “Your turn. How do you think I take my coffee?”

“I...” A war of emotions crossing Will's face in response to my – clearly – unexpected question, he both frowns and, possibly because he's surprised at even having been asked or thought worthy of having an opinion, hesitates over replying.

“It's not a trick question,” I prompt as, not wanting to appear as though I'm putting too much pressure on him, I turn back to my coffee making. “So... Come on, Will. How do you think I like my coffee?”

“I think... you most likely take it white,” Will whispers after what feels like a very long minute or two has passed as he shifts closer to the bench and watches as I work the coffee machine. “Not so much because you prefer the taste, but... because it helps cool the coffee and you can drink it quicker.”

Quietly impressed at how, once, that is, he'd accepted that it was okay for him to do it, easily he already seems capable of reading me, I nod and smile. “You got it in one,” I confirm with a shrug. “Flavour wise, I can drink it black without a problem, but, you're right in that I like it cooler because it means I can drink it quicker and get on with things. But... What about sugar? Do you think I take it sweetened?”

“No,” he replies both straight away and, compared to every other response he's given, somewhat adamantly.

“No? That's not your way of saying that I'm sweet enough already, is it?” I tease, opening the cupboard above the coffee-machine and, after all but having to stand up on tiptoe in order to spot it right at the back, reaching in and pulling out the sugar bowl.

“I...” His brow furrowing in concentration, Will shakes his head and points at the sugar bowl. “If you took sugar the bowl would have been by the machine,” he states, suddenly placing his hand over his mouth and backing away from the bench as he starts to cough. “I... could... be,” he continues between dry, gasping coughs, “wrong... though...”

“Actually, no... Once again you got it in one,” I reply as, not particularly liking how, even though I know it's only down to the strain put on his throat by having started talking again, he's coughing or how pale and possibly even vaguely dithery he looks, I gesture over at the sofa. “Now, how about celebrating your wondrous powers of deduction by going over and taking a seat while I finish with the coffee?”

“I don't... want to put you out,” Will, and there's actually no other way of putting it, wheezes as he leans against the table to steady himself. “I... I've imposed enough already and...”

“You haven't imposed at all,” I interrupt, choking back the sigh I feel like punctuating this statement with and just, albeit with considerable effort, going with shooting him a stern look instead. “Will, I... I know we don't know each other, but... you're not an imposition and I don't begrudge a single second of the time I've spent with you. Now... Please. Sit. You've had, by your recent standards, a pretty productive morning and I really do think you could probably do with getting off your feet for a bit.”

Will, clearly choosing to turn a deaf ear to most of what I just said, shakes his head and gives me a beseeching look. “On that... I... I'm sorry. I'm sorry for... for the way I...”

“No offence here, but as you've got nothing to be sorry about, I don't want to hear it,” I mutter, removing the two cups of coffee from beneath the nozzles of the machine and, after quickly stirring two spoonfuls of sugar into Will's, carrying them over to the table. “You reacted the way that you did because, hey, it was a terrible shock. And, for what it's worth I reacted the way... I... did because I had this dreadful thought that, seeing as the site was saved on my iPad, you might have jumped to the conclusion that I was keeping it there for some sort of... uh... creepy and voyeuristic reason and...”

“I never thought that,” Will interrupts as he looks me in the eyes and pulls a face. “I mean... Why would you? If you wanted it, if you wanted... this...” Pausing, he points at his body and, with a snort, screws his face up in apparent disgust. “Not that you... would... want it, but... If you did, you could have had it. Just... Why go for still images when you could go for the real... thing.”

“I...” Suspecting that just about any response here comes with an inherent risk of putting my foot in it, I walk back over to the bench and pick up the milk. “I... don't see you that way,” I murmur, deliberately keeping my back to Will as I return the milk to the fridge and, as it catches my eye as I'm about to close the door, snatch up a Kit-Kat from the shelf in a blatant bid to offer a peace offering of sorts. “You're an IMF agent that I want to get back on his feet in order to hopefully stamp out the rampant corruption in the place once and for all, and that, to me, is all that you are. You're not... images on a website or... some sort of object here to cater to my every perversion and I...” Returning to the table, I hand the Kit-Kat to Will and shrug. “I don't know what else to say, really. You're safe with me, but... I know I have no way of proving it to you. Just as... I can't imagine what you're going through and can only hope that I haven't done anything to hinder your recovery. This... as you've probably already gathered, isn't what I do, but...”

Silencing me by placing his hand lightly on my arm, Will smiles wistfully and shakes his head. “It's not you, Ethan,” he murmurs, “it's me... The site, it... was a shock when, really, it shouldn't have been. I... I was there. I... lived through it, so... Seeing it, seeing... the pictures... They shouldn't have meant anything to me, but...”

“They did...”

“They really did. And... The thought of anyone being able to see them, I... I couldn't bear it...”

“I know it doesn't change anything, but it's gone now. Gone for good, too, if Benji has any say in it.”

“I... I know...” Pulling his hand away from my arm, Will coughs – and I swear sways on his feet – for a couple of seconds before slowly walking over to the sofa and sinking down on it with a look of relief. “What I also know,” he whispers, shyly glancing up at me as I carry his drink over to him and place it on the arm of the sofa, “is that I'm both... safe... with you and that I... I'm very lucky to have you. I'm only here because of you, Ethan, and I... I'll try not to let you down... Uh... Again. I'll try not to let you down again...”

“If you're talking about this morning, you didn't let me down as I'm sure I would have reacted exactly the same way,” I reply, relieved that Will's mood seems to have improved a little. “Besides... You're talking now, and, seeing as I was just a bit over the silence in this place, that has to be viewed as a positive all in itself. Now...” Picking up the iPad from the coffee-table, I hold it out to Will as, with my free hand, I gesture at the laptop. “Do you want me to read your reports on the computer while you keep the iPad? I don't know how far you got this morning, but if you want to check out the news sites or anything...”

“Thank you, but...” Resting the Kit-Kat on his lap, Will picks up his coffee and, as he cradles the cups in his hands, leans back against the sofa. “I think I'd... just like to sit and drink my coffee.”

Picking up my own drink, I walk over to the armchair and take a seat. “In that case, I'll stick with the iPad, then,” I respond, taking a sip of – white, sugar-free coffee – as I turn on the tablet and open up Will's reports. “If you want anything, I'm just here.”

When, just as I expected, actually, he doesn't reply, I tap open the document with the oldest date and, knowing that I've got a lot of reading in front of me, make myself as comfortable as I can given the age and general – seen better years – condition of the armchair. This done, I reward myself with another mouthful of coffee, and... immediately turn my attention not to my reading, like I know I should and am even quite looking forward to, but to sneaking surreptitious glances at Will. I know that I shouldn't, that... he's not here to provide me with either entertainment or a diversion, but I just can't help myself. He's chosen this morning, after the unpleasantness, shock and minor breakdown caused by stumbling across the website, to suddenly start to talk and... He fascinates me. Again, there really is no help for it as he just does. 

Fascinates, and... unnerves me. I don't know, can barely even begin to imagine, what he's been through, and nor can I profess to having any sort of handle on what he's still, or currently going through. The memories, the uncertainty, the knowledge that things really will never be the same again, the incredibly long road that he just has to know is ahead of him... To a lot of people it would simply be too much. Not only that, but no one would really be able to blame them if they just wanted to retreat into themselves and hide. Will, regardless of the spin – 'But it's over now.' 'What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger.' 'He's still alive and physically in one piece.' 'It could be worse.' – you might try to put on it, has been through hell. Yet, and for this alone he already has my admiration, he's clearly doing his best to do what he can to both pull himself together and move forward. It might be slow going, but as he's already exceeding my expectations, I'm certainly not complaining. Not only is he talking, but I also think, thanks both to his willingness to... lurk... in my company and the way he handed over his research, that he may even be beginning to trust me.

So... Fascinating. Definitely fascinating and now, as I continue to – put all my spy training to good use by staring at him intently while simultaneously looking as though I'm focussed on the iPad – gaze at him, compelling as well. Appearing about as content as I've seen him, he sits silently on the sofa and seems lost in the simple pleasure offered by his hardly café-worthy, in fact, really quite bland if you ask me, cup of coffee. To Will, because he hasn't had it in so long, though, the moment, if not the actual taste of the coffee itself, is probably quite special.

Coffee, having someone who seems willing to listen – even if they have, with neither thought nor intent, been feeding him boring food that probably hasn't been any better than what he'd been used to at the club – to him and who isn't only keeping him around because they want... to do... things to him, clothing, chocolate, the freedom to say either yes or no and know that it, his wishes, will be respected... Although they're all things that he should simply be able to take for granted, currently it would be like a whole new world to him.

I've just got to remember that there's far more to him than meets the eye, that's all.

Just as, and this just happens to go hand in hand with suddenly feeling as though I'm intruding on something of a private moment simply by watching him, I've got to stop... daydreaming... and get on with my reading. While thinking – and then thinking some more – about Will may be all well and good, it's not really as though it actually achieves anything. Sure, I can make a mental note to make a point of improving the quality of the food – let's face it, even take-away would have to be preferable to yet another tasteless sandwich or piece of cold toast – and to perhaps see what I can do about getting him some throat lozenges, but... Although useful in the here and now, it doesn't add anything to the bigger picture and that's what I need to be focussing my attention on. Will's given me his research for a reason and I just need to devote both the time and the concentration to it that it deserves.

Stretching my legs out, I rest my feet on the edge of the coffee-table and, without further ado, start to read. Will's ability to write concise, yet at the same time perfectly detailed reports being something of a clear gift of his, I fall headlong into his research and don't, with the exception of taking random sips of – at first hot, then warm, then a little on the cool side, and then cold – coffee every now and again, look up until I've devoured every single snippet of information contained within his folder. And... Seriously, what he was able to come up with before... being taken from us... is just nothing short of fucking amazing. His investigations into the leaks makes the bits and pieces that I've been collating seem like little more than a blurb on the back of a trading card and, perhaps even more astonishing is the fact that at least fifty percent of it is all new to me. He has information on botched missions and things, be they human targets or actual, physical items, that slipped from our fingers that I've never even heard mention of before.

Three years covered, with fourteen possible leaks identified.

It just...

I knew I wasn't just being paranoid with my suspicions, but at the same time I never thought that the... mess... would stretch quite this far. Or that we, IMF, would have fucked quite so many missions.

Always different teams, though. Different targets. Different methods – loss of target, tainted intel, wrong location, interference from unsuspected sources, too much resistance, crossed wires – of failure. Different... everything. Always, which proves how clever the bastard behind it all is, enough of a difference to not rouse suspicion. 

… Yes, yes. Another stuff up is definitely annoying but, look, seeing as the circumstances are entirely different to what happened last month, it must just be a coincidence. You'd think there'd have to be something in it, but... there just can't be. Better luck next time, huh?

And Will, with his eye for detail and obvious knack for seeing between the lines, has got it all documented.

Will, who I now realise I've actually received intel from before. I'd thought, going all the way back to when I learned of his death in Berlin, that I'd never heard of him or had anything to do with him. I can see now, as I look down at the familiar layout – the font, the use of bold for the headings and the centring of the easy to read bullet points – of the report on the screen that, without even having been aware of who the writer was, that I was wrong and that I had had dealings with William Brandt. One report in particular even changed the entire game plan of the mission I was leading and, if hadn't been for its incredibly timely arrival and the way it made me change both our approach and our timing it's likely things would have had a very different, if not even deadly, ending. I remember being impressed by the detail contained in the report, and I was certainly grateful for the impact it had on the mission, but, ultimately, I just took it for granted. It was just... another report from another... nobody... in the analysts section.

One that, okay, in a somewhat ironic turn, I probably owe my life to.

And Will wrote it.

Just as he wrote the amazing collection of documents I've spent the last ninety or so minutes reading and which, I just know, is going to make our case a slam-dunk once we're finally able to identify where the leak is actually coming from. It, the proof that there's definitely a leak, is there, as much in black and white on the screen as it is in real life, but the asshole pulling the strings behind it all is still a complete unknown. Will's research having highlighted something that I'd missed, we can't even be sure if the leak is actually coming from inside IMF as there's a chance it could just as easily be someone in Interpol. While not all of the bungled missions were ones shared with Europe's premier crime agency, the one thing they do all nonetheless have in common is that, somewhere along the line, Interpol were involved. Be it simply by way of intel having been received from Interpol, or IMF putting in a request for their assistance, or a full on joint mission that both agencies had been working on for years... Every fuck up, at some point in the time-line, involved Interpol. Again though, thanks to Will having left no stone unturned in his research, no two missions were worked by the same agents and all we're left with is the sickening knowledge that someone, somewhere is selling out the very agency that trusts them.

The same... someone... who sold Will – out – into hell and who, hopefully, is going to slip up and shoot himself in the fucking foot when he discovers that, to put it plainly, Will's back where he belongs. And that's, alive, protected by IMF, and more determined than ever to plug the leak once and for all.

So... Game on. We've got the research, and we've certainly got the determination, and, this bullshit having already gone on for more than long enough... the fucker's days are numbered.

It might sound arrogant of me, in fact, hell, I... know.. it's arrogant of me, but I won't have it any other way.

Whatever it takes. It stops now.

Noticing that the iPad has already switched itself off from lack of attention, I lean forward and place it on the coffee-table. “You know,” I murmur, smiling at Will as, looking sleepy, he turns to face me, “I can now see just why it is both Benji and Jane happen to think you're brilliant. Your research, it... It really is quite incredible. And detailed. My God, you've highlighted issues in areas that I wasn't even aware of.”

“Brilliant? Incredible?” Will echoes, giving me an odd look as, coughing, he tries to clear his throat. “You... You're wrong. If the information helps then I... I'm glad, but... uh... I... I'm far from brilliant.”

“Actually, I beg to differ,” I counter, gesturing at the tablet. “What you've got there is... as amazing as it is appalling. I mean, I had my suspicions, but you, you've got proof.”

“Proof that I'm anything... but... brilliant,” he replies, lowering his head and, as his shoulders slump in a display of defeat, gazing down at his knees. “I... I can study it, but... Look at me. Look... what it got me. I knew... I knew that it was real, that... it was a legitimate threat, and...”

“And what happened wasn't your fault,” I interject, shuffling forward in the – futile, as it so happens – hope of getting Will to look over at me. “Whoever this bastard is, and you have no idea how much it pisses me off to admit this, he... He's obviously good at what he does. He's been doing it both unchecked and successfully for three years now, and it's pretty damn clear he's good at always staying ahead of us. So... Don't. Don't blame yourself.”

“I should have...”

“Maybe you should have, but... You didn't and... What's done is, unfortunately, done. So...” Sighing, I sit up straighter and shrug. “Please, Will... I know it's hard, and I know that things are bad, but... Help me. It won't change what happened, it may not even make you feel any better, but... Help me get the bastard. It's already clear to me that you're on top of the research and... I need you.”

“Need?” Snorting, Will lifts and turns his head just far enough to shoot me a look of pure disbelief. “I'm sorry, Ethan, but... Why on earth would you need me, huh? You've already indicated that you're not interested in the only thing I'm arguably good for now, and... You don't, you... can't need me.” The words, faint and hoarse, fall out of Will's mouth in a rush as, with an agitated shake of his head, he goes back to staring down at his knees. “I... I can't help you. I...”

“IMF, or Interpol?” I interrupt, choosing – pretty much as always – to err on the side of just blithely pushing on in the face of, in this instance, misguided opposition. 

“Sorry? I... I don't understand.”

“IMF, or Interpol? The source of the leak, where would you place your money on it having originated from? Each one of the failed missions identified in your reports have a link to Interpol and, just as you yourself raised the possibility of in your research, I'm thinking that's where we might need to start.”

“Oh.” Lifting his head up again, Will blinks at me as what little colour he had drains from his face. “I... That I... can... actually answer,” he whispers, his expression one of absolute anguish as, unable to look at me, he gazes directly in front of him.

“You... can?” I prompt as, hoping to get whatever it is that's caused this reaction out of him as quickly as possible, I once again shift forward in my seat. “You mean to say you know the source of...”

“It's... IMF,” Will states in a voice devoid of all emotion as he curls his hands around his knees. “The leak, it... it's definitely IMF.”

“And you know this... how?”

“Because...” Whimpering, Will buries his face in his hands and all but crumples in front of me. “Because he... He came to me. As... As a reward, he... he was the first to...”

“Will?” My eagerness to learn how he knows the leak is definitely IMF dissolving in the face of how distraught he's becoming, I stand up and, even though I know it runs the risk of making things even worse, take a seat on the sofa next to him. “Hey... It's okay. If it's... too hard for you or whatever, I... I'll just take your word for...”

“He was my first... client, or... or perhaps that should be... master,” Will murmurs haltingly through deep, increasingly panicked breaths. “I... I don't know how long they'd had me for, how long I'd... been in training for, but... when they were finally satisfied that I... that I'd just take it without too much of a fight, they gave him the... honour... of being my first...”

I don't want to. Dear God, do I... really not want to have to do this. In fact, just off the top of my head I can probably think of one thousand and one things I'd rather be doing with my time than this, but, I have to. I have to ask the fucking obvious and put poor Will through yet more grief because, simply put, I have to know.

“I... I'm sorry, Will, I really am, but... I have to ask. I have to ask... how you knew he was IMF. Did you see him?”

Shaking his head, Will whimpers again and closes his eyes. “I... I was blindfolded the entire time, but he... He talked. He talked a lot...”

“And... You recognised the voice?” 

“No. He spoke in Russian. Fluent, but... without a discernible accent, like... like it wasn't his native tongue.”

“Oh...” Someone who works for IMF and who speaks Russian. Not wanting to sound like a pessimist here or anything, but that hardly narrows down our subject pool. “Then how do...”

“The things he said, they... Only someone from inside HQ would know them. He... He knew things. Stupid, minor things. Like... What my locker number was in the gym, how... I liked my coffee, that... Oh God!” His eyes flying open, Will looks at me and groans. “That... thanks to having... stuck my nose in where it wasn't invited... Benji, he... he was going to have to go and see some movie on his own because I... I wasn't going to make it!”

“Hey...” Realising that this has already gone too far and that – readily accepting that the content of what he heard could have only come from someone inside IMF headquarters – making Will say any more on the subject would simply be both unnecessarily cruel and unwarranted, I tentatively place my hand on his shoulder and give it an incredibly gentle squeeze. “It's okay. Just... Shhh... You don't have to say any more as I believe you.”

“He...” As tears suddenly well in his eyes, he shakes his head again and, unless I'm mistaken, leans just that little bit closer to me. “When I... uh... next came to, I was back in my... cell, and he... he'd left me a... present.”

“Will... Come on. You don't have...”

“It was a photograph,” he continues dully, screwing his eyes shut and pushing on as though I'd never even opened my mouth. “He'd... taken a photo of my... details... engraved on the Wall of Remembrance back at HQ and I... That... That's when I just gave up. Until then I'd had the hope that IMF was still looking for me, that... they'd come for me, but... After that... After seeing my name and... and the date that I'd died up... up there on the wall, I... I just gave up.”

“Oh God... Will...” The... raw... anguish in his voice almost getting to me as much as the thought of how... abandoned and helpless he must have felt at that point is, I nearly find myself issuing forth with a whimper of my own as, settling back against the sofa, I – without stopping to think about just what it is I'm doing – drape my arm around his trembling shoulders and hug him against me.

Will, no great surprise here, stiffens – or, to be more precise, goes absolutely rigid – at my overly-familiar touch and, instantly feeling both ill and as though I'm a thoughtless, careless and completely fucking stupid idiot, I half-stiffen myself and, because of this, only... half... lift my arm away as I stammer my apologies. “I... Shit. I'm sorry. I...”

“I... don't mind if you don't,” Will interjects in a quiet voice as, blinking the tears out of his eyes and blushing, he gives me a wan look. “But, I... I'd understand if you didn't...”

Relieved almost beyond coherent reason at Will's easy acceptance of my arm around his shoulders, I let it rest back down over him and, as he curls his legs up onto the sofa and leans, seemingly instinctively, against me, hug him tight. “We'll get him, Will,” I murmur as, once again closing his eyes, he makes himself comfortable and sighs in apparent contentment. “You'll see. Whatever it takes. We'll track him down...”

… And, if I have my way, make him pay.

Make him pay... big time.

~*~*~*~


	9. Chapter 9

~*~*~*~

Although it's not formally listed in either the prerequisites or the 'desired qualities', it pays to have good bladder control if you truly want to make it as a successful field agent. Courtesy of the hours, if not days, of mind – and ass – numbing surveillance and stressful, drawn out interrogations, you're pretty much doomed if you've got a weak bladder and have to spend every second moment wondering just how long it is you're able to... hold on for... or whether you're just going to end up having an... accident. Training, under the banner topic of 'These Things Happen' – or, as the lucky recipients of said training like to call it, 'Shit Happens' – tries to reassure us that, should the unthinkable happen and you're in a situation where you have to wet yourself, it's... okay. It's nothing to be ashamed of and could, and probably even will, happen to any one of us. Female agents are firmly of the opinion that, in terms of surveillance at least, we males have it far easier than they do. That we, and I quote here, “Can just whip it out and piss in anything', while for women it's a lot more inconvenient and awkward. This, of course, happens to be quite true and... should I have been keeping track of such events – which, oddly enough I haven't been – I would have lost count of the number of times I've had to make use of an empty bottle. It's not particularly pleasant, but it does the job and life goes on.

There are, however, times when – one can't just 'whip it out' – not even the convenience of a bottle is a valid option and you're just... stuck. You want, quite desperately in fact, to be able to relieve yourself but, for whatever reason, be it an immensely long stretch of highway sans rest stops (and bottles) or an action packed movie that you're afraid you'll miss something important in if you run to the bathroom, you just... can't.

Take now, for example.

My bladder is telling me in no uncertain terms that it requires emptying. The coffee has met up with the water, and... I want to go.

I want to go... badly.

But...

… I can't.

And the reason I can't is because my arm is still draped around Will's shoulders.

And, with his head on my shoulder and his fingers curled around the inside seam on my jeans, he's sound asleep.

And... I'd feel like a complete bastard if I woke him by getting up.

He looks so – dead to the world – peaceful that I... just couldn't do it to him. It doesn't even matter that he's been asleep for near on three hours now, or that my arm's nearly as numb as my bladder is full, as I'd still rather suffer a little discomfort myself than wake him. His confessions regarding just how exactly he knew the leak was indeed from inside IMF having left him distraught, if not even just that bit exhausted, he was asleep within minutes of settling himself against me and, honestly, I don't think either of us could have asked for a better outcome. I mean, I hardly knew what to say, there was nothing more Will wanted to say, and sleep really was just the perfect Get Out Of Jail free card.

Will, he...

To be honest I'm not sure I even know where to start in relation to what he's beginning to mean to me. What he's been through, how seeing his name engraved on the memorial wall at HQ made him lose all hope, the way his obvious intelligence and attention to detail shines through in his research, how he's somehow managed to find it in himself to trust me, it... Although I'm not usually prone to feelings of admiration, Will just blows me away.. He's talking, and he's clearly comfortable enough with me to not have any issues with using me as his very own pillow and, while logic might tell me not to get ahead of myself and that it's not as though I even really know him, I just don't want to ever let him down.

And, proving, I hope, that I haven't lost my mind, this surprises, as much as it confuses me.

I'm not an overly emotional person. Thanks to my marriage having been such a fuck up and my recent distrust of, well, just about every other person on the planet, I've closed myself off to everything other than the most base – think, anonymous, meaningless sex when that particular itch needed scratching – or cursory interactions, and, to be blunt, it's not as though I've been looking for a friend, let alone...

… Someone to actually... care... for.

But... Care I do.

I care enough about the man sleeping next to me to... put the needs of my bladder secondary to his, and... no one's more surprised by this than I am. I don't... want... to care. In fact, all I ever really wanted to do was keep him together long enough to achieve my goal of plugging the leak once and for all. It mightn't have been especially caring of me, but... caring... didn't have to come into it. What I was wanting to do was for the greater good, and Will getting his freedom back was just one hell of a bonus.

Caring, it... disconcerts me. I've become so used to being – in my vigorously defended bubble of self-protection – on my own, that to have Will, who needs me and who I feel so strongly about, in my life... Again, it just disconcerts me.

That, and, or so I'm hoping anyway, makes me stronger. The stakes are higher than they've ever been before and I'm going to take the challenge of making it through to the other, neatly concluded and what's best for all concerned, side head on.

Compared to everything Will's been through, it's the very least that I can do.

I can fight both by his side and for him, and I can refuse to ever give up, and...

… I can even let him sleep against me when all I really want to do is get up and take a piss.

Not even wanting to stretch my leg out in case it wakes him, I tilt my head back and, anything being preferable to dwelling on either the confusion Will installs in me or the growing pressure on my bladder, once again turn my thoughts in the direction of just what it is we're going to need to do next. Not yet having come up with a route that I like, or even want to set in motion, they're pretty much the same, repetitive thoughts I've been having ever since I realised Will had fallen asleep, but, beggar's not really able to be choosers and all that, I know that I have to keep going over them until something comes up that I'm willing to follow through on. And something will. Eventually. It has to. 

We know there's a significant leak.

And we know for a fact that the leak is from inside IMF.

Now all we have to do is draw him out.

That's all.

We just have to corner the mother fucker who has been making all of IMF – with a generous side helping of Interpol – his bitch for three years and bring him to justice.

Again, that's all.

Only...

Every so much as halfway decent plan I've been able to come up with involves using Will as bait, and I just don't like the thought of that at all. He'd agree, of that I have no doubt, but I personally don't think that he's up for it. Not in the immediate future, anyway. In a couple of months time? As I hope he'll be in a much better place then than he's in now, sure. I probably wouldn't even hesitate to set him up as the worm dangling on the hook if that was the case. Right now though... I'm just loathe to even suggest it. If talking about the bastard took this much out of Will, what would sitting there... just waiting, and... knowing... that it was only a matter of time before he sought him out and came for him, do to him? I don't even think that it would matter that, deep down, he'd know that we were monitoring his every move and that he was safe, as... it would just take too much out of him. The stress, the doubt, the fear – however illogical he might try to convince himself that it was – that the plan would fail and he'd once again manage to snatch him away right from under our noses...

I just, even though I'm yet to come up with any other option, don't want to have to do it to him. I don't want to have to march him into HQ and, solely in the hope of startling the mole into making a mistake, just... hand him over to be prodded and poked and... made to feel like some sort of lab rat. One way or another, I know that when the news breaks that Will's still alive it's going to go through the agency like wild fire and he's going to be the only topic of conversation on everyone's lips for weeks. What I'd like though, assuming that is I can come up with a way of managing it, is to have a good handle on flushing out the leak... before... this happens. Will, again, I just don't think would be able to cope with being the centre of that much attention while, at the same time, feeling as though he was a sitting duck in respect to the mole wanting to have another – and this time the end result really would most likely be permanent – go at silencing him.

I'm sure he'd do it, and he might even have to unless I'm able to come up with an idea that I actually like, but it really isn't something I want to inflict on him.

The problem is though, and nothing is going to change this no matter how hard I might try to both look at it and work around it, everything revolves around Will. He's at the epicentre of all of this and I just don't know how I can continue to protect him from what has to be coming. To the asshole behind all of this, getting to Will and removing him from the picture once and for all will be of paramount, all-consuming importance to him. Even if he's confident that Will never saw him, either during the actual kidnapping itself or while he was getting his... bonus... in some dim, dark dungeon somewhere, there'd still be the lingering fear that he recognised his voice or possible hint of doubt that, maybe, just maybe the blindfold had slipped at some point and he had actually caught a glimpse of the bastard's face.

To be a successful field agent you need to be more than just cunning, fearless, fit, and a good shot. You also need, and sometimes I think this is one of the most important abilities of all, to be able to think like the enemy, to... place yourself in their shoes in order to try to second guess their next move and subsequently beat them to it. Learning that Will is still alive will throw the mole's entire miserable existence into disarray. One second he'll be happily going about his sorry excuse for a life, and the next, once he realises that if you truly want someone dead you do actually have to kill them and not just fake their death and stash them somewhere, he'll be doing his best to stave off a panic attack. 

Does he...

… Take Will out? It would certainly solve the problem of Will somehow managing to identify him, that's for sure, but... It wouldn't be easy. Having to move fast, he'd need to get to him the very same day that his... amazing resurrection... was announced, and that just wouldn't be easy at all. The Secretary himself will no doubt put in an appearance, doctors and medical staff will be crawling all over him, he'll probably have someone with him every moment of the day, and... All of this makes it very difficult to find a window of opportunity in which to get in and do the deed. It would still be doable, of course it would, and if the bastard happens to be an agent he'd have the skills required to find a way in, but... it would still be both difficult and extremely risky.

So... Taking him out as quickly as possible. Definitely desirable, if not even preferable, but a lot of work, with a lot of risk attached.

If, however, when Will puts in his miraculous reappearance – and I can see no reason, especially if he'd be willing to put himself out on a limb in order to play the role of bait why he wouldn't agree to feigning the inability to speak while he was at it – he happened to be mute, that would give the mole a little bit of breathing space as he'd feel as though he had more time to make his move. Silent, traumatised, and of no great interest to anyone because he wasn't good for anything useful, he'd probably be left on his own for greater periods of time, and... While it still wouldn't be easy, getting to him would still have to be easier than if he was sitting up and talking and just about everyone in HQ was wanting to hear what he had to say.

So... We could play the mute card, take the time to set up a careful trap, and just hope that the mole dutifully makes his way into it. While I find this plan slightly – only slightly, mind you – better than just dropping Will into headquarters and winging it, I still don't like it and don't want to have to put it into action. 

The other option, and for keeping Will out of harm's way I like this one the best even though it's not without its own set of problems, is for Mr – Mr Day's Are Numbered – Mole to simply panic and make a run for it. Fearing that Will would be able to name him, and even if it wasn't immediately the threat would always be there, he could decide to just pack his bags and bolt. I like this idea because it would be the best for Will as he could concentrate on his recovery without feeling as though he had to constantly keep looking over his shoulder. The problem with it though, and it really is a massive one, is the logistics. Seeing as he's already managed to slither around under our radar for so long as it is, what's to say we'd even notice his sudden disappearance? If he is a field agent who happens to be out and about at the time, he could just fake his own death and we'd probably be none the wiser as to his involvement. In fact, offensively, we'd most likely even mourn him.

So... While it would be great if he did a runner, how would we know? We could throw everything we've got into monitoring the movements of absolutely everyone on the IMF payroll and, if he's as smart as he seems to be, he could still just slip through our fingers. And... That just wouldn't do at all. I might not want to have to use Will as bait, but... I want to catch the bastard more and the thought of him getting away with – everything – it just makes my blood boil.

Oh... And just to throw yet another spanner in the works, there's always the possibility that he already knows about Will having disappeared from La Fée Noir and has made moves to protect himself accordingly. La Fée Noir being, on top of everything else, a huge unknown, I have no idea in respect to either their involvement in Will's captivity or even how they took his disappearance. By monitoring the local police reports, I know that no mention whatsoever was made of there being a man found, tied to the bed and gagged, in a hotel room. I also know, having hacked into the hotel's computer system, that the room was once again available for booking only two days after I'd left him there. So, really, who knows what happened. Maybe hotel staff found him and, not wanting to risk bad publicity or police being seen all over the place, simply accepted the handler's request to just let him go and turn a blind eye. Maybe, suspicious that they hadn't returned when they should have, La Fée Noir sent someone round to the room to check out what was going on and found him that same night. Maybe... the club is just used to losing their – objects – staff like this. Maybe, if the 'Currently Unavailable' banner on their website is anything to go by, they expect me to get bored of Will and that I'll just return him when I've finally had enough.

La Fée Noir. Or, as they should perhaps otherwise be known, The Great Fucking Unknown.

Upon realising that he'd gone, did they immediately get in contact with... whoever... it was they got Will from? Or, alternatively, are they just a front for the same organisation that grabbed him off the street? Either way here, did someone get word to the mole that he'd gone and they could no longer guarantee his silence? Maybe, and this, really, is a case of... 'for all I know', they never even knew that he was there against his will. It sounds far-fetched, but there are men and women out there who genuinely want to be treated like slaves. They sign contracts giving themselves over to their... 'master'... and it's what works for them. I'm not saying I get it myself, but just because it's not my thing doesn't mean I can look down my nose at it or just write it off as being either twisted or deluded. To each their own, I've always thought, and if that was what the person wanted and was happy to submit to, then... Seriously. Whatever. Maybe I'm just deluded myself here, but La Fée Noir could have... purchased... Will from a 'previous owner' and if he wasn't speaking at this point and had given up trying to fight, they probably wouldn't have even thought there was anything out of the ordinary about him. He was a slave because that's what he wanted to be, and... as that's what they expected of him, he was just the same as the next... slave... who may even have walked in off the street and signed the contract that very same day.

So... Yeah. In terms of La Fée Noir, who fucking knows?

What I do at least know is that, regardless of whether the mole knows about him having been found or not, Will's safe. Even if there are people, La Fée Noir... people, or the mole's... people, out there looking for him, he's safe here with me and I'm confident, if this is what needs to happen, that I can get him back to D.C. without anyone cottoning on to our movements. It mightn't help put my mind at ease in respect to whether the mole knows what's going on and has already disappeared – never to be seen or heard of again – but it's still better than nothing and, for Will's sake, I'll take it.

I'd also take the timely – and much needed – arrival of an idea or a plan that I actually like but, seeing as I doubt that's going to happen any time soon, I'd settle just for Will waking up so that I can make a – and, again, much needed – run for the bathroom.

His timing, if you ignore the last hour or so, that is, being near on perfect, Will wakes up and, startled by the position he's in, reacts by digging his fingers into my thigh before jerking upright and pushing himself – as far away from me as he can possibly get – up against the arm of the sofa. Pale as ever and looking as though he's seen a ghost, he blinks at me owlishly, and while I know I should tell him that it's okay, that there's nothing to worry about, I just simply don't have the time.

Jumping to my feet, I waste a couple of precious seconds on both flashing him a grin and exclaiming, “Thank God you're awake!” before quickly making my way into the bathroom. Shutting the door, I do what I so desperately needed to do and, after flushing, walk over to the basin to wash my hands. Once I've done this, I turn the taps off and am just reaching for a towel when I notice, and how I've missed this given that I've been living here for close to a week now is beyond me, a small wicker bowl containing what looks to be take-away menus sitting on the back left hand corner of the vanity unit. Somewhat taken aback by this, I give up on the idea of using a towel to dry my hands and just wipe them on my jeans a couple of times before grabbing up a handful of pamphlets and beginning to sort through them. Although I can't confess to understanding the logic behind keeping such a thing in the bathroom of all places, I'm almost ludicrously pleased by my random discovery as it means I'll hopefully be able to dish up far more interesting and – edible – diverse dishes to Will without actually having to, well, cook, and, after deciding against anything Indian or Asian inspired because I don't want to risk upsetting his stomach, settle on good old fashioned pizza. Noticing that the pizza bar is just up the road, only a couple of shops up from the pharmacy, actually, and that they both open for lunch and deliver, I rapidly reach the conclusion that I've never felt more like a slice of pizza in my life and, keeping the pamphlet with me, walk out of the bathroom.

Will, still looking pale and oddly mortified, is in the kitchenette drinking from a bottle of water and he watches me closely as I head over to the table and place the menu from the pizza bar down on top of it. “You...” Frowning at how his voice is sounding even more hoarse and croaky then it did before his nap, he shakes his head and tries again. “You should have woken me...”

“Why?” Shrugging, I sit down and, because I don't want to make an issue out of his insecurities, start to read the menu.

“Because you... clearly needed to... uh... go,” Will replies, walking over to the table to stand opposite me.

“So? I know how to hold on and, anyway, you were asleep and I didn't want to wake you.”

“But... All I do is sleep. You didn't have to...”

“You sleep a lot because that's what your body needs,” I counter, glancing up at him as he stands, still frowning as he looks down at me. “Look. Don't worry about it.”

“You still should have woken me, or... Or you could have just stood up or pushed me away. I... It wouldn't have bothered me...”

“Maybe not, but it would have bothered me.” Shrugging, I go back to my reading. “You need your sleep, Will, and it was fine. If I'd really wanted or needed to get up I would have. As it is though, your timing was pretty spot on and I didn't have to.”

“You... You're too kind to me,” Will whispers. “Ethan, I... I'm not worth...”

“I'm not too kind to you,” I interrupt with a sigh as, looking up again, I fix Will with a – capital L – look. “I just try to treat you as you deserve to be treated. I haven't exactly been much of a people person since Davian did what he did, and a lot of the time I don't particularly think I'm doing a good job by you at all, but... I'm trying. And the main reason I'm trying is because it's what, Will, you deserve. You deserve to be treated with respect, and that's all I'm trying to do. Now...” I pick up the pamphlet and wave it at Will as, having finally stopped frowning, he gazes at me wide-eyed. “Although I know you've been giving it a red hot go, but seeing as man really can't live on chocolate alone, how do you feel about pizza for lunch?”

“Pizza?” Will echoes, glancing at the menu but making no move to take it from my hand.

“Yeah. Pizza. There's a shop just up the road that appears to be promising American style pizzas. If, however, you don't like...”

“I... like pizza,” he interjects hesitantly. 

“Don't tell me, let me guess... Pineapple,” I murmur, smiling as, having successfully managed to change the topic, I – as always – just push on with it. “You've got a sweet tooth so, ergo, you like pizza with pineapple on it.”

“I...Yes. But...”

“As I can eat anything, and, yes, that includes toppings that really have no right being on a pizza, I don't have a preference and am fine with getting one with pineapple on it. So... Pizza, yes?”

“That... would be nice, actually,” Will replies, mirroring my smile with a brief one of his own as, placing his water down on the table, he begins to walk over to the bathroom. “Thank you. Ethan, for... everything. Just... I know it doesn't even begin to come close to it, but... Thank you.”

Shrugging, not because I want to dismiss his gratitude but because I don't want to make a big deal of it, I wait until Will's disappeared in to the bathroom before getting up and, with the pamphlet still clutched in my hand, going over to the coffee-table to retrieve my phone. Picking it up, I sit down on the edge of the sofa and, placing the menu down on my knee, dial the number for the pizza bar. The young, if both his voice and overly-familiar manner of speaking is anything to go by, man who answers the call striking me as an obliging sort who'd be only too happy to make a bit of extra cash on the side, I quickly order two pizzas – one with 'the lot' and the other a ham and pineapple... with extra pineapple – before asking if he'd mind, for a generous fee, of course, swinging by the pharmacy and picking me up some lozenges and throat gargle on his way. Just as I'd hoped he would, the man readily agrees to my request and, proving that there are still good people in the world, even goes so far as to promise to bring me – the cashed up, sickly tourist – some of his mother's fresh lemons as a bonus. Thanking him profusely, I end the call and drop the phone back down on to the coffee-table.

Hearing the sound of the bathroom door opening, I glance at Will and, as he makes his way over to the sofa, grin. “The pizzas should be here in give or take forty-five minutes,” I state. “What's more, the delivery guy's even going to pick up some stuff at the pharmacy, not to mention... pilfer... some of his mother's lemons, for your throat on his way. I know it was kind of cheeky of me, but... Hey! I'm a firm believer in... You'll never know if you never try.”

“As I wouldn't even have thought to... try,” Will murmurs as he glances at the armchair for a second or two before, with a shrug, taking a seat next to me on the sofa, “that... That's actually really quite... lovely. The sort of thing that... Uh...” Trailing off, he shrugs again and won't look at me.

“Will?” I prompt, swivelling to face him. “Whatever it was you were going to say, just... say it. You don't have to... censor... yourself around me as all I want is for you to be yourself.”

Sighing, he folds his hands in his lap and gazes down at them. “I was going to say that it's the sort of service I'd be happy to pay a good tip for,” he whispers, “but... Uh... Then I realised that I can't, that I... I have no money.”

“If it's money you want, there's plenty around here and you can have as much as you'd like,” I offer quietly as, hoping that now isn't the time he chooses to take offence at it, I lightly place my hand on his knee. “While I'm not really recommending you head off on a shopping expedition of your own, if you'd feel better having some money on you, then...”

“As I have no intention of going... anywhere... on my own in the near future,” Will interjects, shifting his gaze to where my hand is resting his on his knee, “I... I'm okay and don't have any need for any money. It... It was just a sudden realisation, that's all.”

“Well... Just remember that if you ever want it, you can have it,” I reply, giving his knee a quick squeeze before, not wanting to push my luck, pulling my hand away. “Now, I don't know when you want to have this particular conversation, but, as I'm sure you're already aware, we're going to have to talk about... where exactly it is we go next.”

“As in... Hunting down the leak?” Will queries, scowling as he lifts his head and glances at me.

“As in hunting down the leak,” I confirm with a nod. “He's IMF and, I don't know about you, but I'm not going to rest until his days of roaming free have come to a crashing end.”

“You think... you... want him brought down,” Will mutters drily. “So, trust me... I'm good to have this conversation now if you are.”

Not needing telling twice, I give another nod and, seeing no other way to go about it, launch into sharing with Will my thoughts on what I feel are the limited options available to us. Listening intently, he doesn't, and this is despite of the fact that I think I sound as though I'm babbling and perhaps not even making all that much sense, interrupt once and simply lets me go for it. As presentations go it leaves a lot to be desired, and I'm actually glad that the Secretary can't hear me as I jump all over the place and repeat myself, but it gets the job done and when I've finally finished I shrug and give Will a wan – 'there you have it' – smile. “Uh... So there you go. That's pretty much everything I was able to come up with while you were having your nap, and... Believe me, I'm open to suggestions.”

“I...” Will releases a deep breath and I notice, courtesy of the small pile of shredded paper on the coffee-table in front of him, that he's used the time I spent talking to – possibly out of either nerves or nervous energy – scrape the label off his bottle of water. “If I'm needed as bait, then I... I'll do it. If it's what it's going to take, I'll... I'll do it.”

“First let's see if it has to come to that,” I respond, reading between the lines of his response and knowing that, no, it's not really something he wants to have to do at all. Just as I thought would be the case though, he will, he'll put himself out there if it's what's required. He'll do it because it's what's needed of him and because he can see the reasoning behind it, not because it's what he wants or even feels overly comfortable with. While it's all well and good knowing that your every move is being monitored and that you've got backup waiting in the wings to bound out and save the day, it's still a big ask of someone who has been through what Will has. It doesn't matter that he's an agent or that he's had the same training as I have, as no-one, and I really do mean no-one, has the right to tell him how he should be feeling or what it is he has to do. Not me, not the Director or the Secretary, not IMF's premier psychiatrist or counsellor, not... anyone. No-one has the right to push him into a corner and to just expect that as a – man – fully trained agent he'll be able to cope.

And what this basically means is that, if I'm not able to be fully convinced it's what he himself wants to do, it's just not going to happen. I've always considered myself to be first and foremost an agent, someone who always – to the detriment of anything that stood in the way of devoting myself to this goal – put the greater good and the needs of IMF first, but...

No more.

Not in this case.

I look at Will and I can see, in the slump of his shoulders, the paleness of his skin and the haunted look in his expressive eyes, what he's been through and I can't, I... won't... make things any worse for him.

“It's okay, Ethan,” Will murmurs, sliding his hand across his lap but stopping short of reaching out to touch me. “I'll do it. Whatever you need from me, I... I'll do it.”

Sighing, I finish what Will started and stretch my fingers out to brush against his. “Seeing as it's not as though we have to be out of here tomorrow,” I reply, “we've still got time available to us to hopefully come up with something better.”

“Like what?” Will queries bluntly. “We both know what the deal is here and if I'm what's needed to scare the bastard into making a move then... that's what's going to have to happen. I... I'm okay with it. Seriously. It... It's not like I'm not used to doing things that I don't want to...”

“You might be okay with it, but I'm not,” I retort, pulling my hand back and, although I know it's a defensive move, folding my arms across my chest. I don't want to argue with Will any more than I want him to feel as though he has no other option than to simply place himself in the lion's den, but... Damn it! I don't know what to do and I can feel myself starting to get frustrated. “Look. I'm not saying that you're... fragile, or even that I think you'd be at any great risk, but I... I just don't like it, okay. I don't think you're up to it and, while, fine, the choice is ultimately yours and I'll respect it, I think we need to see what we can do to come up with a better plan.”

“I...” Falling silent, Will looks at me with obvious – 'my, you're far more emotional than I would have expected' – interest for a few, quite long and drawn out, moments. “So... We know that, regardless of anything else, he has to know that I'm still alive,” he murmurs at long last. “That... has to be step one.”

Nodding, I unfold my arms and place my hands back down on my knees. “He has to know that you're alive,” I confirm.

“In the hope that it'll panic him into action...”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“And by action... we mean, come for me...”

“Or... really panic and skedaddle.”

Will gives me an amused look. “Skedaddle, huh?”

“You know what I mean,” I mutter, giving him an amused look of my own. “Or, I don't know, do I perhaps need to translate it for you?”

“No. It's all good. I know what... skedaddle means. Can't say I can remember the last time I actually heard it, but... It's alright, I know what it means.”

“Good. So we can move on, then?”

“We can.” His smile slipping, Will picks up his empty bottle and rolls it between the palms of his hands. “Whatever he does, be it... come for me, or... skedaddle,” he continues, “we need to be in a position where we possess the upper hand...”

“We need to be in charge of the situation, yes,” I reply, curious as to where he's going with this and, leaning forward to fix him with a hopeful look, I make no attempt to disguise my obvious interest. “You're thinking of something that I've missed, aren't you?”

“Not... missed, per se,” Will replies with a shake of his head as, doubt clearly beginning to creep in, he gazes down at the water bottle, “ more... Re-routed, perhaps? I... I don't know. It's just an idea. Probably not even a very good one, but...”

“How about you give me a chance to be the judge of that, yeah?” I interject. “Come on, Will, let's hear it. If it helps I'm not exactly a huge fan of anything I've been able to come up with, yet...lame as they were, I still inflicted them on you anyway.”

“I think you'll find I'm the... lame... component there,” he mutters dismissively, “not your plans themselves. If... If I wasn't such a basket-case...”

“If I thought you were a basket-case I wouldn't be sitting here waiting anxiously to hear what it is I just know you've come up with,” I interrupt matter-of-factly. “So, come on. Enough with trying to deflect me, and... Out with it.”

“I...” Nodding, Will pushes the bottle away and leans back against the sofa. “I think that you're right in that he'll come for me,” he states in a flat, quiet tone of voice. “He... He was there when I was abducted in Berlin...”

“Hey! What?” I exclaim, seizing on this snippet of information in the hope that Will may have actually seen him after all. “You never mentioned that before. I don't suppose...”

“I didn't see him then either,” Will murmurs, cutting me off as his expression closes over and he goes back to gazing down at the coffee-table. “In fact, I... The only reason I know he was there was because he... he told me. Clearly... liking the sound of his own voice too much, he talked non stop while he was fu...” Unable to say it, Will closes his eyes and, balling his hands into fists so that his nails dig into his palms, breathes deeply. “Ethan, I... I can't,” he whispers faintly. “Please... Don't make me...”

“So... We know for a fact that he's hands on and has no issues with travelling when the need arises,” I declare, glossing over Will's anguish not because I don't care but because I honestly think, in this instance, it's just the right thing to do. If I ignore the pain his memories are causing him and get him straight back on track, he can just focus on sharing his plan with me and, for now at least, that'll be that. It's only a stopgap, a... bandaid applied over a deep, open wound, but it'll have to do. “And what you're thinking,” I continue, “is that, because of this, there's a very good chance that he will in fact make an attempt to come for you...”

Nodding, Will opens his eyes and rubs his hands over his face. “He... claimed... to have handled Berlin personally,” he replies, “and he... Wherever the...uh... training... was conducted, he came there too. So... He... He's definitely hands on and I... I was thinking that we could hopefully use this to our advantage.”

“It sounds a lot to me like you're still thinking of using yourself as bait,” I respond, scowling as I can feel the sense of hope I'd started to experience about Will's idea being something both new and better beginning to disintegrate around me. “Will, I know...”

“Yes, and... no,” he states with a weak smile. “I'll be... perfectly honest with you here, Ethan, and that's that I... don't want to have sit in a hospital room just... waiting for him to come for me again. I... I don't even want to be stuck in a hospital, period, but... If it comes down to it, I will. Getting him is the only thing that really has to count here, but...”

“You think you know a way around it?” I prompt as hope, fed by Will's honesty, once again begins to bloom inside me.

“Possibly, yes...”

“So... Let's hear it, then.”

“Okay.” Taking a deep breath, Will looks me fleetingly in the eye before, with one final sigh for luck, starting to share his plan. “I'm not saying that I think it's great, or that it'll even work, but what I was thinking is... You make the announcement to the Secretary that you've found me and that, because you're not feeling safe in Paris, you're going to take me to the London field office instead of straight back to D.C. because... it's closer and you're not sure I'd make it any further. You... then go on to explain your travel plans, that... you're going to take the Eurostar from the Gare du Nord, but... instead of going direct you're going to change trains at Ashford International...”

“Because I... think there's a chance we're being followed and don't want to remain on the same train for the duration of the journey?”

“Pretty much. We're not meant to take direct routes if we think we're being followed, so it... It should still sound viable.”

“Well, I'd buy it...”

“And that's a good start, right there.”

“But... I'm sorry, Will. Clearly I'm not getting it. I make our travel plans known and...”

“With any luck he'll make his move in Ashford,” Will finishes. “I don't know if you've been there before, but it's not a very big station and, assuming he falls for it, of course, I think we'd be able to trap him here. We wouldn't stand a chance at St Pancras, or Gare du Nord, for that matter, but... Ashford International, I... I think we could do it.”

“But...” God help me, but I'm still not getting it. “We still wouldn't know who we were looking for. I understand where you're coming from and, although I haven't been to Ashford before, I believe you that the station there would be a better place to cast our net than either London or Paris, but... None of it's going to do us any good if we don't know who it is we're looking for...”

“Sorry.” Will shrugs apologetically. “I haven't done this for a while and probably sound as though I'm jumping all over the place, but... the backbone of my plan is the timing. We... We go to Ashford and set up base there... before you make your first call. That way we can...”

“Monitor both the station and movements from within IMF,” I declare with a grin as the penny finally drops into place and Will's idea makes perfect sense to me. “You... You're a genius. We... go to Ashford, perhaps even get Benji to join us as I suspect he'd sort the surveillance stuff out far quicker than we ever could, and we... watch... to see who makes a move.”

“Hopefully... makes a move,” Will corrects, “but... Yes. That, essentially, is it. Once we're in Ashford, and... uh... I like the idea of Benji joining us, you make the call and make sure that it's known that they won't hear from you again until your next check-in which won't be until you've safely reached Ashford. That way, once the news filters down to him he'll have to make his move straight away because he won't know how long he's got to get over here...” Trailing off as his confidence once again takes a turn for the worse, Will looks down at his hands and sighs. “And... If it doesn't work, we... we can always just go on to London and take it from there.”

“While there's no guarantees for pretty much anything in life other than one day meeting your maker,” I reply, countering Will's doubt with a grin, “I happen to think your plan is a damn good one. It gives us time to stay one step ahead, it keeps you off the hook for a little longer, and... You know something? I think it has a pretty good chance of working, too.” Noticing that Will's frowning at me and opening his mouth to no doubt argue, I shake my head and wag my finger at him in a warning gesture. “And, no. Before you say it, I'm not just saying this to massage your ego or... placate... you. It's a good plan, Will, and one that I'm confident we can manage to pull off.” 

A loud knock on the door heralding the arrival of lunch, I stand up and, before heading over to pay for the pizza, close my hand around Will's shoulder. “Benji and Jane, they really are right, you know,” I murmur as, before either nerves or perhaps even common sense can stop me, I plant a quick kiss on the top of his head. “You're brilliant. I may have come up with a plan like yours... eventually, but you, you came up with it just like that.”

“Don't underestimate my desire to not have to sit there waiting for him,” Will mutters, blushing. “But... Thank you. Knowing that you can see the... logic... in it, helps... It helps a lot actually.”

“Of course I can see the logic in it,” I reply, giving his shoulder a squeeze before pulling some cash out of my pocket and starting to walk over towards the door. “Now... Let's just enjoy lunch before getting down to the nitty-gritty of it all and working out just what it is we need to arrange before getting out of here and heading for the UK...”

~*~*~*~


	10. Chapter 10

~*~*~*~

“I've just thought of something,” Will announces as, yawning, he sits up a little straighter in his seat and turns to face me.

“You have, have you?” I mutter, hiding my surprise at the fact that he's awake by continuing to drum my fingers on the steering wheel. Not that it matters, but I could have sworn that he was actually asleep and not, just as we'd planned, feigning it for the purposes of getting through customs without drawing too much attention to either our appearance or paperwork. 

Passport Forgery 101 being one of the first classes you have to pass with flying colours as a rookie, it wasn't that I doubted the quality of the paperwork I'd spent most of yesterday sourcing and perfecting any more than I was worried about getting through French border security. Moving unnoticed between countries is, after all, what we do, and we've got to trust as much in our ability to forge the paperwork as we do in our ability to bullshit our way through any questions the officials might care to throw at us. Will, though... Given his wariness of strangers and in particular his inability to look them in the eye, we decided it would probably be for the best if, as we're travelling to the UK through the Eurotunnel and weren't going to have to get out of the BMW while our passports were checked, he simply pretended to be asleep and just left the bullshitting to me. It wasn't a particularly in depth plan, or even an imaginative one, but we'd hoped that it would do the job and, thankfully, it did. The passport official, who hardly looked old enough to shave and who appeared far more interested in the text messages that were coming through in quick succession on his phone than he did in actually doing a proper job of, well, his actual job, waved us through with hardly a second glance and now we're just waiting for another official, this one wearing a hard hat and bright orange reflective vest, to direct us in to the train carriage.

Choosing to travel at night, not only because it would be easier to book a last-minute berth on the train but also because the traffic on the roads to Calais would be a lot less than it would during the day, we left the flat in Pigalle just after eight and, everything having gone to plan, here we are at the Eurotunnel terminal waiting to board the midnight train to Folkestone. While I personally would have preferred to have just caught a flight as opposed to having to drive the three hours to Calais, the logistics of making it happen in a way we would have been happy with just didn't work. Armed with the iPad and a logical streak that puts mine to shame, Will did the math of all the travel options open to us and, to my admitted surprise, crossing the Channel by train came out on top. 

Wanting to avoid the massive crowds and obsessive security of both Charles de Gaulle and Heathrow, the only direct flights on offer were Orly to London City and, by Will's reckoning, that would have blown out our travel time to about seven hours. The flight, at less than ninety minutes, might have been short, but customs and boarding at both airports would have added another two hours on to the journey and then, once we were in the UK, there'd have been probably around two or three hours driving from London to Ashford. In other words, it just simply wouldn't have been worth it. The time we saved in the air would have been eaten up by the dreadful traffic on the motorways.

Having accepted that flying was unfortunately out, that left crossing the Channel by either ferry or train. Both of these options involved having to drive to Calais first and, when it came down to crunching the numbers, taking the tunnel came out on top by a little less than an hour. So, Will's math being both carefully thought through and irrefutable, when it came down to it, taking the Chunnel just had to come out on top. While time itself wasn't much of an issue, as at the moment were still very much working to our own time-table, I couldn't see any reason to make the journey any longer than it had to be and accepted his reasoning without question.

And, here we are. About to leave France – and I had to agree with Will when, as we drove away from the flat, he quietly murmured that he wasn't going to miss Paris – in order to embark on the next step of our plan. The drive went well, traffic was as light as we'd hoped it would be, Will, who still tires easily and who seems to be able to fall asleep at the drop of a proverbial hat, slept pretty much from the moment the lights of Paris disappeared from the rear vision mirror, and, again, here we are just waiting for the BMW to be called on to the train.

So...

So far, so good.

“You don't have to do this, you know,” Will states, blinking as he takes in the bright lights of the busy terminal. “I... I know we've passed through customs and all that, but... It's not too late to turn around and just catch a ferry instead.”

“A ferry?” I echo, giving Will an inquiring look. “We're here now, in fact... we're less than forty-five minutes away from Folkestone, so... What makes you think I'd want to swap to a ferry now?”

“Because I thought... maybe you wouldn't want to have to travel in the tunnel again,” he offers, his expression one of doubt as he bites down on his bottom lip and fails to meet my gaze. “I mean, it... it's okay if you feel as though you... uh... might have an issue with it. Just... Remember who it is you're talking to here. I'm just as likely to lose it if someone looks at me too closely, so... uh... please don't think you have to be stoic for my benefit. I know what you went through all those years ago with Phelps and Krieger and... and the helicopter... in the tunnel and I... I suppose I thought...”

“You know about...” Stopping myself from continuing, I roll my eyes and make a snorting sound. “What am I talking about. Seeing as I was the one who gave you my personnel file to read, of... course... you know about it.”

“Oh... I knew about it long before I read your file,” Will replies, giving me the sort of nervous look that tells me he doesn't quite know how to take my mood. “In fact... I don't think there's anyone at IMF who... hasn't... heard the tale of the helicopter where... uh... really, a helicopter had no right to be.” Shrugging, he flashes me a cautious smile. “It wouldn't even surprise me to learn that it had been added to the rookie curriculum. You know, just to put the gossip to bed and prove that it's not simply an urban myth.”

“Don't tell me, let me guess... The class would be entitled something along the lines of... 'Now, are you... still... sure this is the career for you',” I mutter as, amused by Will's way with words, I can't help but laugh. “I don't know about you, but if I had to sit through a lecture explaining to me that one day I might have to try to live through a damn helicopter following the train I was on into a tunnel, I... I think I'd start looking for a career change right then and there.”

“Well... If they're looking to revamp their... Cautionary Tales... section of the curriculum they can always... uh... use me as the new poster child for why working in the post office or flipping burgers mightn't be so bad after all,” Will responds wryly. “But... Uh... As that would probably just put paid to our recruitment capabilities, let's forget I ever said anything and just move on.”

“Will...”

“For once this is isn't about me,” he interrupts, frowning. “It's about you and whether or not you're really okay with going in the tunnel. And... As I think Mr Hard Hat over there is getting ready to wave us on, you need to make up your mind.”

“I'm fine.” Noticing that Will's right and we're being waved aboard the train, I put the BMW into gear and slowly drive down the ramp and into the empty carriage. “I'm not going to say that I haven't... thought about it, as I have. The one and only experience I've had of these tunnels wasn't, shall we say, a pleasant one, but...” Switching the engine off, I glance out the windscreen at the dull metal confines of the carriage we're now in and, because I've got an audience and know that I have to, shrug. “I'm fine. Really. Not only was it years ago now, but... Look. Everything's different. This isn't a passenger train, the lack of windows in here means we won't even know where we are, and... I'm fine.”

“Then why are your knuckles white?” Will queries as he reaches out and lightly trails his finger across the knuckles of my right hand as I clench it tightly around the steering wheel. “You've made your decision now, Ethan, and I respect it, of course I do, but... You didn't have. You didn't have to put yourself through this and I... I'm sorry for not having thought of it sooner. It... It was careless of me and I apologise.”

Realising that Will's right and that my knuckles are looking a little on the white side, I pull my hands away from the steering wheel and drop them onto my lap. It's silly, and I could no more admit that maybe I was hasty in deciding that taking the tunnel was the best way to go than I could flap my arms and fly, but he also happens to be right in that, yes, I'm uncomfortable. God knows I don't want to be, but... I am. I'm not claustrophobic. I don't dwell on what happened that day in the tunnel, and it's not as though I've ever even nightmares about it, but... Fuck. It's more than silly, and I'm as embarrassed by having Will pick up on it as I am by feeling this way in the first place, but I'm just not rapt with being in the tunnel. Logic screams at me that there's nothing to it, that what happened that day is unlikely to be repeated – by anyone, anywhere – in my lifetime. The train carriage is different, we're getting to spend the entire journey sitting in the car, no-one, to the best of our knowledge, is on to our travel plans, there's no windows that I can see out of or imagine flames or chopper debris flying past of, and...

It's fine.

I'm fine.

I'm here now, so I have to be.

“I'm fine,” I repeat, finding the energy from somewhere to dredge up a thin lipped and grim smile as the doors of the carriage slam shut behind us. “In thirty-five minutes or so we'll be driving off this thing in Folkestone and... this metal coffin on tracks, like France, will be behind us. So... Uh... Stop looking at me like, don't apologise because, seriously, I'm the one that drove on to this thing in the first place and you've got nothing to apologise for, and... I'm fine.”

“And I'm the Cheshire Cat,” Will retorts, cocking his head to the side and looking at me closely. “I've noticed that whenever I'm showing signs of... uh... agitation,” he adds, “that you... pretty much ignore it and just push on with trying to keep me on track by continuing to talk normally, as though... I'm... normal.”

“Of course you're normal. You've just been through...”

“You say normal, I say freak,” Will mutters with a shrug as slowly, very slowly the train begins to move, “but... Whatever. I'm not wanting to argue with you here and, in my own, half-assed way what I am, however, wanting to do is what I can to take your mind off the fact we're in a tunnel and soon to be under the English Channel. So... Focus on me, not where we happen to be, and... talk to me.”

“Talk to you?” I echo, touched that Will seems determined to put himself out – and by taking the lead here and placing himself on the spot by offering to talk, he'd... have... to be putting himself out – solely for the purpose of trying to make me forget just where it is we happen to be.

Nodding, Will flashes me a tired, hopeful smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Talk to me. Argue with me. Even... Ask me anything. ”

“Telling you that you're normal is... far... from arguing with you. Will... All things considered, I think you're doing exceptionally well. What you've been through is...

“The one thing I really don't want to talk about,” he interjects, his expression falling as he leans back and, so as to avoid my gaze, looks out through the windscreen. “I... I'm sorry, Ethan, but I can't. I'm just not...”

“As it's not something I'm ever going to push you on, this is just another one of those things you don't have to apologise for,” I state, reaching out my hand to lightly touch his thigh. “So... Please. Don't worry about it. And... As I really am fine, please don't think you have to... keep me occupied either. I mean, I'm happy to talk to you, but... don't think you have to.”

Sighing, Will places his hand over mine and presses down on it. “I want to,” he murmurs. “I don't want to talk about... that, but, because it's the least that I can do given everything you've done for me, I... I want to help and this, this is all that I can think of offering you.”

“You don't have to offer me anything. It's kind of you, not to mention incredibly perceptive as I thought I was doing a pretty good job of convincing myself that I didn't have a problem with the tunnel at all, but... Seriously, Will. I'm okay.”

“I want to do this,” Will repeats stubbornly as, his expression one of determination, he fixes me with a look. “I... need... to do this. You've done nothing but put yourself out for me and, with the exception of going in to... that, I want you to know that I... that I'm not entirely useless and that you can both talk to me and... have expectations of me. So, please, revert to your usual fall back of trying to treat me like I'm not just a basket-case and... Ask me something. Anything.”

Liking, even though I wish the circumstances were different and he wasn't thinking that he had to do it on my behalf, this display of stubbornness on Will's part, I mentally wave the white flag of defeat and, as the train picks up speed, nod. “Okay,” I mutter. “But only because I get the feeling this isn't a fight that I've got any chance of winning.”

“It's an... offer, not a fight,” he counters with a tentative smile as, possibly sensing victory, he gives my hand a squeeze. “Now... What would you like to know?” 

“What I'd like to know is...” Pausing, I turn my hand over and, without really thinking about what it is I'm doing, entwine my fingers with Will's. It's an odd move to make, given that it's not exactly as though we're close friends or even that I'm an overly touchy-feely type of person, but for some reason it just strikes me as natural. Instinctive, even. Will, despite everything he's been through, allows – as opposed to simply tolerates because he doesn't think he's got any choice in the matter – my familiar touch willingly and I think, although I could be wrong, that he even derives a degree of comfort from it.

And... I like touching him. It sounds wrong, and I know there are some very distinct boundaries that I'd be wise to never accidentally cross, but, as far as I'm able to read in to it anyway, it shows that he trusts me. By holding my hand and squeezing my fingers, it tells me better than words ever could that I've been doing something right and that, somehow, he actually trusts me.

“Ethan? It... It's not a trick question. I'm here, I'm... awake, for a change, and... I want to talk to you, to... show that I can.”

Suddenly realising just what it is that I'd like to know from him, I nod and, hoping like crazy that he doesn't take it the wrong way, flash him an easy smile. “Okay. What I'd like to ask you is... Why? You seem to trust me, Will, and I'd like to know why...”

“Why?” Frowning in obvious confusion, he sighs and gives me an odd look. “Of course I trust you. I... I'm only here because of you and, even if it has just been because you've seen me as a means to an end in terms of smoking out the mole, you've never been anything but kind and patient with me.”

“You're not just a means to an end to me,” I state adamantly, tightening my hand around his, “and you've got to believe me that, if it came down to a choice between him and you, I'd choose you. I want him rubbed out, of course I do, but you have to come first.”

“And... That's why I trust you,” Will murmurs as, clear even in the dim light inside the train carriage, a very faint blush stains his cheeks. “I... I'm nothing to you, but...”

“You're not nothing.”

“But I am. You don't know me, I... I'm only some random agent to you, yet... You've done everything for me. From that first day...”

“The first day?” I prompt, hoping to shift Will more into... explanation-mode, than the... self-deprecating-mode he currently seems to have latched on to.

“Mmm... That night... The night you took me with you from the hotel room, I... I was gone.” Swallowing hard, Will pulls his hand out from under mine and hugs his arms loosely around his torso.

“Hey... It's okay,” I whisper, returning my hand to my lap and wishing, as I seem to be prone to doing where Will's concerned, that I'd never opened my mouth. “You don't have to...”

“It's okay. Let's face it, you were there too and already know what I was like.”

“But...”

“No. It's okay. Really. This, I... I'm okay with.”

“I just don't want you to think that you have to...”

“I know I don't,” Will states, tilting his head back against the headrest. “But... I'm fine with it and just want you to listen because, well, I probably won't want to to do it again, that's why.”

I'm already relatively confident that I'm not much going to like whatever it is that Will seems so adamant that he has to get off his chest, but at the same time I know that I have to accept that whatever his reasons are for wanting to talk are – be they wanting to keep my mind off the tunnel or a sudden need to share a little more of his side of the story with me either because he thinks he has to or possibly even feels that he wants to – it's still entirely his call to make and I don't have the right to try to silence him. I just don't. I might not want to hear what he has to say. I might even think talking about it when he doesn't have to may possibly end up doing him more harm than good by taking him through memories he's not quite ready for. But, when it all comes down to it, if he wants to talk, then he can.

“Just... Only share what you feel comfortable with,” I murmur, curling my fingers back around the steering wheel. “And... If you want to stop, then... Stop. I appreciate you wanting to do this, Will, but, please, don't feel as though you have to. You've only been... uh... out... for five days and I'll understand if it's too soon.”

Five full days. That's all it's been. Barely one-hundred and twenty hours have passed since Will, little more than a living, breathing... object... at that point, was delivered to my hotel suite and, seeing as I still find myself constantly amazed at how well he's coping, my admiration for him knows no bounds. Yes, he's weak and he could give cat a run for its money in terms of how many hours he can spend sleeping, but he's also talking, displaying initiative, and... trying. Trying to fight, trying to move forward, and trying to just... be himself. And I just admire him for it. I really do.

“As I suspect it will... forever... strike me as too soon, now is as good a time as any,” Will replies, digging a throat lozenge – duly delivered, as promised, by the man from the pizza bar – out from his pocket and, after unwrapping it from its foil, popping it into his mouth. “Well... We'll see how long my voice can hold out, at any rate.”

“If you'd rather...”

“That night, was... just like any other night,” Will starts, cutting me off as he returns both the lozenges and the wrapper to his pocket. “While I don't really know how to explain this in a way to properly do it justice, I didn't feel... anything. There was no fear, no anticipation or anxiety, there was just... nothingness. Another client and another...” Closing his eyes, his breathes deeply for a few seconds before opening his eyes and blinking up at the roof of the car. “Another client and another cock that I didn't want anything to do with,” he continues flatly. “It... was just how it was, what... I... was. The drugs, and I now know just why it is people turn to them, coloured everything. They controlled the pain... and the fear... and the doubt... and the hatred... Just, they numbed everything. So long as they kept my doses up to date, I... I was kept, safe even, in a bubble of nothingness. Life was just... what it was. I didn't think about what I'd lost, or that perhaps there was more to life after all and that I should maybe look at escaping, I just... existed in a vacuum.”

“So... That night. What you're basically saying is that you... didn't care...” It's an odd thing to so much as contemplate, given that as agents we're trained to fight to our last breath and to never, ever give up, but I think I'm actually grateful for the effect the drug regime had on Will. Sure, if he hadn't been drugged he might have been able to find a way to escape, but at the same time the mental torture – and that's without even touching on what was being done to his body – would have been a living hell. To know that... you weren't meant to be there and that no one was looking for you because they already thought you were dead, it...

I can't even go there.

I just can't.

“I didn't care because I... I didn't know how to care,” Will whispers. “You were going to do whatever you wanted to me and then, when you'd finished, I'd be taken back, hosed off, and locked back in my little room until my services were next required and the cycle started all over again. It... It was just how it was. So... When I was shoved into your room I... didn't think anything of it, didn't even care, and just... stripped off because it was what I'd been trained to do. You... You could have done anything to me.”

“But I chose to knock your... handler... out and tie him to the bed instead,” I mutter, failing dismally in my attempt to inject a light note to my voice and, even to my own ears, just sounding as – horrified – dull as I feel. “That must have come as... uh... something of a surprise.”

“Not really... If I thought anything it would have been that it was just some sort of new game, one that I hadn't encountered before. I already knew that... uh... it took all sorts and... if you were wanting to start the session off by pretending to... abduct me, then... Whatever. You were paying for it. I was just there to... give you whatever you wanted.”

“Oh. I... I'd hoped that you would have seen it as a promising sign, that it was finally over and that... you were free.”

“Sorry,” Will murmurs apologetically as, sitting up a little straighter, he stares out through the windscreen. “To me it was just another game, one that I had to go along with. Everything you did, regardless of how... out of the ordinary... it might have been, was... just because it was what you wanted to do. Taking those things off me, making me get dressed, putting me in the car, swapping cars and plates, it... It was all just part of the game. One that... was only ever going to have one ending. And... I... I just didn't care.”

“Shit! I'm sorry. Obviously I went about things all wrongly and...”

“It wasn't you, Ethan, and you're not to ever think that you did anything wrong. It was me. The drugs they had me on meant that I didn't know any better and... there was nothing you could have done that would have got through to me. Even at the flat, I listened to what you were saying, and I followed your prompts to shower and everything, but... Still, I waited... I waited for you to finally lose interest in your elaborate... set-up... and to just get down to it.”

“To...”

“To fucking me, or... spanking me, or... just doing whatever it was that floated your boat...” Sucking his breath in, Will closes his eyes again and visibly shudders. “Even when you left me alone in bed, I... I kept waiting.”

“I... I'm sorry.” Oh God, and I am too. I don't know what, if indeed anything, I could have done differently for Will that night, but, if I could have my time over again I'd certainly do my best to do a better job of doing what I could to get through to him that he really was safe, and that it really was all over.

“You weren't to know and even if you did there wouldn't have been anything you would have been able to do about it,” he murmurs, turning his head and giving me a sad look. “That night, in bed, I... I was warm, unrestrained, and... comfortable. Nothing might have made sense to me, but... when I eventually went to sleep I slept well and, when you woke me, I... I somehow knew that things were different.”

“That... I wasn't going to hurt you?” I prompt hopefully as, feeling as though I've held off for long enough, I return my hand to Will's knee and give it a gentle squeeze.

“That you certainly seemed as though you had no... interest... in wanting to hurt me,” Will clarifies with both a weak smile and a small shrug. “I... felt ill, and, as the drugs were already beginning to wear off, my back hurt, but... Things were different. You... And, please, don't be offended by this... You looked almost as wary of me as I was of you.”

“I... was... wary of you,” I confess, mirroring Will's weak smile and small shrug combo. “I knew that I had to do everything in my power to help you, but I... I've got to be honest here, I just didn't know how. Because I was worried about your physical state, I knew I had to get you seen by a doctor, but other than that I was just stumbling around in the dark. All I could do was hope for the best.”

Dropping his gaze down to his lap, Will places his hand over mine and smiles softly. “And that's what I could see when I looked at you,” he whispers. “You were... tentative... around me, but apart from that you... Right from the very beginning, you treated me... normally. That morning, as you fussed around me, telling me what to do but never... forcing... me, I... I started to believe that... That it really was over, that you really were who you claimed to be, and... that I was safe.”

“And then I had to go and put a pretty severe dint in that belief by... first carelessly dragging you outside and very nearly blinding you,” I mutter, scowling as I follow Will's lead by looking down at my lap, “before carting you off to that bastard of a doctor and just letting him...” Fuck. I can't even say it. I could allow it to happen, and I can definitely regret it, but, ironically, I can't say it.

“I think it's fair to say that you and I view the events of that morning very differently,” Will replies, lifting his hand away from mine and, to my surprise, placing it on my shoulder. “Look... I was off with the fairies. Everything was starting to hurt, I felt ill, a part, a big part, actually, of me was still afraid that it wasn't real and that you were just going to hand me back to the club, but, you... Everything you did was just... right.”

“But I let him...”

“Just... Listen to me, Ethan. Let me tell you how... I... saw the events of that morning and how they convinced me that I could trust you...”

“I can't see how...”

“If you'd just let me speak I'll hopefully be able to convince you.”

“Prove you're delusional, more like,” I mutter, softening the flatness of my response with both a quick shake of my head and a brief grin. “But... Fine. If you really see that dreadful morning in a different light, I'm all ears.”

“All lip, more like,” Will mutters, gracing me with a quick smile of his own to show that he's only teasing me. “Now... Please. Shut up and listen.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you've got a way with words?”

“Are you going to listen or not?”

“I'm listening, I'm listening!” And, what's more, I am too. That morning, that... fateful... morning when I dragged Will off to be molested by that asshole of a doctor sticking all too readily in my mind as not being one of my finer moments, I can't for the life of me see how he views it in such a... positive... light and really do want to hear what he has to say. Even if it is only – delusional – an exercise in creativity, it still shows that he was more aware of what was happening than I was giving him credit for and, as with so many things, I feel as though I owe it to him to let him have his say.

“That morning,” Will murmurs, leaving his hand resting on my shoulder even though he turns his head away from me and seems to gaze down at nothing in particular on the dashboard, “although I was starting to believe that things really were getting better, I... I was still far enough gone that you... You could have done anything to me and I would have just took it. You... seemed... different, and I'd had the best night's sleep in... uh... God alone knows how long, but you still... owned me... and I would have submitted to anything that you'd wanted.”

“I... Shit. I should have done a better...”

“Please, Ethan, just let me finish. I want you to know just how it was I was really feeling, and how your actions, all of them, got through to me that everything was real and that I could trust you.”

“I'm sorry. I won't interrupt again.”

“Yeah, well... We'll see about that,” Will replies, a small smile tugging on the corner of his lips as, perhaps unconsciously, he curls his fingers around my shoulder. “Anyway, as I was saying, you could have done anything to me and I would have let you. Not just because I was too weak to fight you off, but also because it was what I was used to and what, to be honest with you, I expected. You could have done anything to be, but... You didn't. You treated me with respect and it... It was just amazing. From the moment I walked out of the flat...”

“And was immediately blinded by the sun because I hadn't...”

“So much for not interrupting.”

“Uh... Sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah... Look. I'm not going to lie to you here. The brightness of the sun was one hell of a shock to my system. I... I couldn't tell you, even if my life depended on it, when I'd last been outside in daylight, and... It hurt. Oh my God, did it hurt. I'm sure if it had been in a movie I would have blinked in wonderment the second the sun hit my face and that would have been it, but... It wasn't a movie, and it hurt more than I could handle, and... And I was so afraid that you'd be angry with me for the way I'd reacted, for being... weak...”

“Will...” His name falls out of my mouth like a groan and I'll be damned if I can't feel myself cringing back against my seat. “I knew it was bad, that being out in the sun was a shock to you, but...”

“But you knew immediately what was wrong and, instead of ranting at me or even hitting me, you... gave me your sunglasses and cap,” Will murmurs as, turning to look at me, he smiles at what I can only guess is a look of sheer astonishment on my face. “You probably didn't even think anything of it. In fact, as your goal was to get me to the doctor's, you probably did it out of sheer instinct. But... Whatever your reasons were, you gave me your own sunglasses and cap and... it made a world of difference to me. Not only did it mean that I could see again, but it was also... kind. You could have just dragged me along behind you, but you didn't, and I... I could hardly believe it.”

Relieved that what Will is saying actually makes sense to me, I nod. “Okay. You're right in that it was pretty much just instinct, but I'm glad that it worked and... uh... wish I then didn't have to go and ruin the promising start by letting...”

“You didn't let him,” Will interjects, sighing as he shoots me a disapproving look.

“I did. I sat there doing nothing while he...”

“If it helps, if our roles had been reversed I would have been sitting there doing nothing too,” Will states, gently digging his fingers into my shoulder. “Seriously. I wouldn't have been watching what the doctor was doing and, if you must know, I'm glad that you weren't.”

“But...”

“Yes, he crossed a line, but, to me, it was just... normal. In fact, I didn't even think anything of it. I didn't like what he was doing, and I didn't want him touching me there, but I was used to it. Uh... So used to it, even, that I wasn't even disappointed. It was just... Same old, same old.”

Oh yeah. Like hearing him put it that way helps. “I'm sorry. I should have...”

“What was new though was the way you reacted,” Will continues, his eyes brightening as he obviously recalls the moment with a lot more fondness than I do. “When you saw what he was doing you didn't hesitate and... You stopped him. You didn't... move closer to get a better view, or... berate him for trying his luck for free, or... yell at me for having led him on somehow. No. You pulled a gun on him and made it clear that he was in the wrong, that he couldn't... just take, and, again, I was just amazed. I know you ranted and raved a bit, and put on a performance, but... somehow I could see, and... accept... that it was just an act, that you didn't really believe what you were saying. You treated me as though I was human and, again, I... I could hardly believe it.”

“Still think I should have just shot the bastard,” I mutter, relief once again flooding over me as I can now see how, okay, Will might have translated the scene differently to me. Where I saw the doctor molesting him, he saw me... standing up for him, and, I get it. I probably wouldn't have if he hadn't said anything but, as he thankfully did, I now can. “But... Okay. I'm glad that you saw it that way. You... Shit. You have... no idea... how glad I am that you view that moment differently to how I've been viewing it.”

“Then, once we were outside in the alley, you did it again.”

“Did... what... again?”

“Amazed me.”

“In the... alley?” Shaking my head, I give him a quizzical look. “How? Nothing happened in the alley.”

“Yes it did,” Will corrects. “I tried to get it across to you that what the doctor did was, for the want of a better way of putting it, okay with me, that, as it was what I was used to, I didn't care, but... You wouldn't have a bar of it. You even apologised and, again, stood up for me.” Pausing, he lifts his hand away from my shoulder and gives my knee a small pat. “Not content with that, you then held my hand and... bought me chocolate, and... while I still felt none the wiser in respect to what was really going on, I knew that... you were different from what I was used to and that I could trust you. You treated me with respect, seemed almost as... out of your depth... as I felt, were always gentle with me, and... that's why I trust you...”

“Oh...”

“Just... Oh?”

“I'm sorry, Will, but I don't know what to say,” I reply, flashing him a sheepish smile. “Everything you've just said puts an entirely different slant on how I saw that morning, and I... I suppose I'm just a little taken aback by it. Uh...” I roll my eyes. “Sorry. I'm just not very good at this, and knowing that I appear to have somehow done a better job than I thought I was doing, it... Actually, to borrow your term, it amazes me. Amazes, and... relieves me. You're right, I felt out of my depth, and was constantly worried that I'd accidentally do the wrong thing by you, and... I'm just glad that you were... okay.”

“I was more than just okay,” he murmurs. “I was... amazed...”

“Smart ass.”

“In this instance, yeah, I was being a smart ass, but... Please don't think I didn't mean everything that I just said, as I did. You've been nothing but kind to me, Ethan, and I really do trust you, and... uh... to me anyway, everything you've done for me really has been nothing short of amazing.” Shrugging, Will returns his hand to his lap and, suddenly looking either embarrassed or as though he feels he's said too much, turns to look out the passenger door window. “I... don't want to keep going on about it, and... I've basically said everything that I wanted to say now, but... I wanted you to know that I trust you and... just why it is that I trust you. I was nothing to you, but you never made me feel that way and I... I think you're brilliant.”

“Hey... That's my word for you,” I retort, giving his upper arm a gentle poke with my finger as, feeling as though Will needs a break from this – albeit gentle and solely by his choice – stroll down memory lane, I decide the time has come to move the conversation on a little. I appreciate the effort he's gone to, not to mention both his honesty and the truly gratifying way he's put my mind to rest in terms of how he's been viewing my treatment of him, but, at the same time, I really do think that he's now done enough. “Just... Thank you. Thank you for taking me through how you saw that first morning and, thank you, too, for trusting me. But... Come on, how about we talk about something else, yeah?”

“I... think that's probably a good idea,” Will replies without hesitation. “So...” Turning back around, he shrugs and observes me for a few seconds before smiling and, seeing as it appeared to have worked for me, poking his finger into my arm. “How about this... What I said earlier about even rookies knowing about the incident with the... uh... helicopter, it also just stands for you in general. Ethan, you... Everyone knows who you are. They may not have even met you, but that still doesn't stop them from having an opinion on you or, I suspect, perhaps even thinking that they... do actually know you. I'm fairly confident that you don't court it, and it wouldn't even surprise me to learn that you're not even that aware of it, but you're IMF's very own version of a celebrity.”

“Problem child, more like,” I mutter, pulling a face as, not particularly liking where the conversation seems to be going, I go back to drumming my fingers against the steering wheel. “Or... Black sheep. Don't forget that, as I'm currently disavowed, you're... in cohorts... with a wanted man and that the second I put in an appearance my ass is going to be thrown into interrogation.”

“And that's why everyone... knows of you, or admires you, or happens to be jealous of you, or... thinks you're reckless, or... uh... possibly even just a little bit unhinged,” Will declares with what almost sounds like a hint of awe in his voice. “You're a brilliant agent because you're prepared to do whatever it is you think it's going to take. I'm not saying that you don't care about the rules, but you're not afraid to break them if you don't see any other way, and... well... your exploits are legendary.”

“My exploits are legendary, huh? I suppose that's another way of saying I'm the poster child for... what not to do.”

“Most agents wish they had half the determination and courage that you do, but I... I'm not telling you this to embarrass you or put you on the spot, as... It's just how it is. People talk about you because you're IMF's best agent and because they'd love to be like you. I...” Pausing, Will sighs and leans his head back against the headrest. “I said hello to you once, years ago. It was on the second floor, near the elevators closest to the conference room. You were waiting to get in the elevator while I was getting out and, recognising you, I said hello. And... You ignored me. In fact, I don't even think you were aware of my presence.”

The pointless, fidgety drumming no longer doing it for me, I clench my fingers around the wheel and somehow, I have no idea how, manage to control the urge to either groan... or beat my head down on the dashboard. “I... Shit. I'm sorry, Will. I wouldn't have ignored you intentionally. It...”

“It's just that even if you had actually seen me you wouldn't have known who I was,” Will finishes, briefly placing his hand over mine before sitting up and, changing tack slightly this time, poking his finger into my thigh. “It's okay. I'm not telling you this because I'm... pathetic enough to have been scarred by the experience, or even that it sticks in my memory, as, it doesn't. Not really. Well, not in the way you're probably thinking, anyway.”

“If that's your way of saying that you didn't walk off thinking I was a stuck-up, arrogant pig,” I murmur, “then, I'll take it.”

“I didn't walk off muttering to myself about arrogant, stuck-up pigs at all, so, please... Stop looking so worried, or... Perhaps that should be... oddly mortified,” he responds, frowning as, looking as though he's beginning to regret having started on this topic, he slumps back in his seat. “The reason I remember the moment at all is because it just really brought home to me the... differences between us. You... You were Ethan Hunt. The agent everyone knows and who, because of this, most likely has random people coming up to him and behaving as though they know him all the time. And I, despite having only been at IMF for a few years less than he had, was just... nobody.”

“You're not nobody,” I interject automatically as I really, really begin to wish that he'd just shut up and stop going on about this. I mean, needless to say I have absolutely no fucking recollection of this event and having to listen to Will go on about it is making me feel like a prize ass. He's right in that, yes, people – and quite a few of them I've never seen before in my life – come up to me all the time and either say hello or start talking to me as though I should either know who they are or give a fuck as to what they're saying. Usually though, I say hello back and, as – my mother used to make a point of drumming into me – it doesn't cost anything to be polite, just let them talk for a minute or so before making my apologetic excuses and slipping away. I can only think that when Will stepped out of the elevator and said hello to me that my mind must have been on a different plane. I certainly wouldn't have blanked him intentionally and, knowing that I clearly did – ignore him, that is – just pisses me. It doesn't matter that it's history, or that I've hopefully well and truly made it up to him by now, as it still annoys me. I was rude to someone for no reason when I shouldn't have.

“No. I'm not... nobody,” Will murmurs, “but compared to you I am.”

“No. You're...”

“Of course I am,” Will interrupts with a laugh. “And, what's more, I'm fine with it. Everyone knows you, Ethan, and has an opinion on you, whereas... I'm very much in the background. Strangers say hello to you all the time, while.. I've had days where no-one's even spoken to me. We're... world's apart, you and I. You're the high-flying agent, and I'm... the occasional agent who the other analysts think has delusions of grandeur or some pretty serious ideas above his station, and... the analyst who agents view with great suspicion because they think I should just either stay behind a desk or make my damn mind up as to what it is I want to do to. You didn't know who I was, and... that was just that. I wasn't hurt, or even surprised by your total lack of interest in me, and...it... It's just how it was and, again, that's what I was thinking as I walked off. Not that you were up yourself or that I wasn't even worth a grunted hello, but... just how different we were.”

It finally getting through to me that Will's not having a... coded... dig at me at all and is just trying to draw to my attention to how we're both perceived, I nod and, solely because I already know how I'm going to – hopefully – make up for it, confess, “You're right. I didn't know you. That's not to say that I wouldn't have said hello to you if I'd... uh... been aware of you that day as I would have and can only imagine that I must have been miles away when you walked out of that elevator. It's not much of an excuse, but, although I have no memory of it myself, I'm still sorry. Again, though... I... didn't even know that you existed until... uh... you didn't. That is, the first time I became aware of you was... when the news of your death filtered through, and then, despite not even having known of you, I was pissed. Pissed that you'd been murdered because you were just doing your job, and pissed that IMF hadn't done a good enough job of protecting you. But, and I hate saying this, I really do, when I looked at your photo it was honestly like I was seeing you for the very first time.”

“Oh... See? Told you I was a nobody compared to you,” Will whispers in a dull, defeated tone. “I... I suppose I should be honoured that you even took the time to look at my photo.”

“Seeing as it's what jogged my memory when I saw those photos in that folder at the club, I'm just going to be forever grateful for the fact that I did,” I respond as, turning to face Will, I reach out and rest my hand on his shoulder. “But... Back to thinking that I had no idea who you were. I know now that I was wrong, that while I may not have known what you looked like, or even what your name was, I... knew your work.”

“You did?” Will queries perhaps just a little too brightly as he doesn't even attempt to hide the hopeful expression on his face. “How? I mean...”

“The other morning, while I was reading your reports into the leak, I realised that I recognised your style of formatting,” I reply, giving his shoulder a squeeze as, smiling, I make a point of meeting his gaze. “And the reason I recognised it was because I'd seen it before. It might have been a few years ago now, and my memory might even be a bit hazy in respect to the actual specifics of the mission, but what I remember, what I'll... never forget, is that the report, which was marked urgent and which arrived unexpectedly, changed everything. The intel was up-to-the-minute and irrefutable and... if it hadn't arrived when it did my team would walked straight into a complete and utter nightmare.”

“That...” Sighing with obvious relief, Will smiles and visibly relaxes. “ That's... great, and you have no idea how glad I am to know that my work was able to make a difference,” he murmurs. “So many agents think that analysts have it easy, that all we do is sit on our backsides behind a computer and write reports. What they don't realise though is that there are times when we have as much control over the outcome of a mission as the agents on the ground do, that, if we get it wrong, we hold their lives in our hands in the same sort of way that we would if we had a sniper rifle trained on them. So... Knowing that something I wrote was able to help your mission succeed, it... It really does mean a lot to me.”

“I just regret not having thought to make the effort to seek out the analyst who changed everything so fortuitously,” I respond, “and either taken him out for a drink or, at the absolute least, thanked him for having saved the day. I also regret... not having known you and... uh... promise in the future to be more aware of both analysts and the essential role that they play.” 

“Maybe you could even go so far as to visit the office one day and give a few of old timers heart palpitations with your presence,” Will laughs before cocking his head to the side and holding his finger up to his lips in a... 'shhh... be quiet and listen'... gesture. “Hey... Do you hear it?”

“Hear what?” Frowning, I concentrate on trying to hear whatever it is that's caught Will's attention and, not actually hearing a damn thing, shrug. “I can't hear anything.”

“Exactly!” he exclaims, giving me what well may be a smug look. “And that tells me that the train has come to a stop and that we're here already.”

Realising, now that he's mentioned it, that he's right, I lift my hand away from his shoulder and place it on the gear stick in anticipation of soon being able to start the car and drive out off the carriage. “Seeing as that indeed seems to be the case... Congratulations.”

“Congratulations?”

“Mmm... On having so successfully kept my mind off the fact we were travelling through a tunnel under the English Channel. Just... Well done,” I reply, watching through the windscreen as the carriage door glides open and another man in another bright orange vest and wearing another hard hat materialises to direct us off the train. “In fact,” I continue, starting the car and slowly driving it up the ramp and out into the Folkestone terminal, “you did such a... good... job of it that I'm already thinking that there's a good chance I may have to call on your... hand-holding... capabilities again.”

“Hand-holding? Again?” Will echoes, giving me a look that's far more curious than it is bothered by my random declaration. “Uh... Care to elaborate here?”

“This was all good and everything, but... Hey. Sitting in a car in a windowless carriage is obviously a lot different than taking the passenger train and actually being able to look out...”

“And... The day with the chopper, that was a passenger train...”

“It was. Now... The way I see it is this. If I'm ever going to be truly over this... apparent phobia I have of the tunnel, I'm going to have to take the passenger train again and, seeing as you did such a terrific job of getting me through it this time, I'm thinking, whenever I decide to do it, that I'll need to take you on the Eurostar with me.”

“Oh.”

Suddenly unsure as to how Will has taken my attempt at light hearted banter, I shrug and feign fascination with my driving. “It's okay, Will. It was just...”

“Promise me two things and, whenever you want me to hold your hand on the Eurostar, I'll be there,” Will states, cutting me off.

“Two things, huh?” Well, there you go. He appears to be taking it both fine, and... seriously.

“Mmm... One, the topics of conversation would be a lot... lighter,” he murmurs, smiling as he glances at me in order to gauge my reaction. “And, two, the final destination, as I don't care if I ever see the damn Eiffel Tower again, has to be Brussels and not Paris...”

“I...” Slightly amazed at how willing he seems to be to take me up on my – originally said solely in jest – offer, I look at Will and, as I suddenly realise just how much I'd like to one day make this... train journey... a reality, grin. It's probably only ever going to be a pipe dream and won't ever actually happen, but, as completely random ideas go, this is one I really would like to see realised. Will... Damn. He just gets to me in ways that I don't even think I'm fully prepared to own up to yet.

“No deep and meaningful topics of conversation, and Brussels instead of Paris,” I reply, still grinning away the strange mass of thoughts that are swirling around in my head. “You know something? I think I can do that. In fact, if it's a promise you want, I can give you my word right here and now that, if they're your only two provisos, you're... on.” Not wanting to say any more for fear of letting on to Will just how much this is getting to me, I grab my phone from off the dashboard and hand it him. “Now... How about sending a text message to Benji to let him know we're less than thirty minutes away?”

~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Guess what?? Page count wise, we've just made it past the halfway mark!)


	11. Chapter 11

~*~*~*~

Jealous.

It's wrong of me, I'd even go so far as to say... quite unbecoming of me, and, if that wasn't already enough to go on, it's also a source of considerable confusion to me.

I mean...

Fuck.

It's just so fucking... out there... that it's not even funny.

Or right.

Not funny. Not right.

And not making any fucking sense.

Jealous.

I'm jealous of Benji.

Benji, of all people.

Don't get me wrong. I think Benji's great. A little on the odd side, sure, and, okay, maybe he's something of both an acquired taste and... not to everyone's taste, but I like him. He's incredibly talented at what he does, happens to be one of the increasingly few people I trust within IMF, and, penchant for talking your ear off and babbling about things of absolutely no interest to anyone other than himself aside, he's always good company. Excellent skill set, eager to please, almost – endearingly – quirky, Benji is just... Benji.

I like him.

And I'm glad that he was able to feed his manager some bullshit about needing to take an emergency trip to the UK because of an unexpected death in the family and is here to provide the tech support we need.

I am.

I'm glad that he's here.

I just wish that I wasn't so – perfectly irrationally, at that – jealous of him.

Actually, no. That's not being fair to Benji as it's not really Benji himself that I'm working myself up into such a pointless flap over.

It's his friendship with Will.

I'm fucking jealous of how comfortable and... familiar... they are with each other.

I'm jealous that, since arriving here, Will has spent most of his waking hours with Benji.

And...

… More than anything else I'm jealous of how – effortlessly, warmly and in a way that was clearly welcome – Benji hugged Will when we arrived. 

Which, let's face it, is beyond fucking pathetic.

Unlike me, Benji actually knows Will. He knew him before... all of this, and they're friends.

I should be happy for both of them. Benji, because he's back with his friend who he thought was dead, and Will, because it just has to be a relief to him to be with someone he knows.

And I am happy for them. I am. Why wouldn't I be? They know – and obviously like – each other, Will needs to be around those he can both trust and feel comfortable with, and it's not as though their bond or whatever it is that they've got going on between them has anything to do with me anyway.

Only...

I don't know. Maybe I'm just pissy because Benji went ahead and gave in to both instinct and temptation by hugging Will when, thinking that I was doing the right thing, I'd deliberately made a point of telling him that his friend wasn't the same as he remembered him and that, because of this, he might want to remember to keep his distance. Again, I thought I was doing the right thing, that I was – simply being thoughtful – taking the feelings of both parties into account and doing what I could to protect them. I thought, going on his wariness with Jane, that Will would be stand offish or, worse, anxious around Benji and that this, in turn, would hurt Benji's feelings as much as it would concern him. I didn't do it because I'm delusional enough to think I have some sort of a proprietary hold over Will, and I certainly didn't, in a sense, warn Benji off out of jealousy.

Just...

Why would I? 

Then again, I suppose the question that could equally be asked is...

Why should I be lying here, flat on my back on the bed and staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling while I dwell on, and sulk over, something I should – no ifs, ands or buts – be happy about?

It just doesn't make any sense.

I like Benji, and, although I could hardly confess to knowing him at all, I like what I've seen – or, what he's let me see – of Will. And that, pretty much, is where my vague, limited, and... like-it's-really-got-anything-to-do-with-me-anyway... interest in their friendship should end. They're my friends, I have their best interests at heart, and... if Will wants to be hugged by Benji or to seek him out to talk to instead of me, then...

Fine.

I should be fine with it.

In fact, it should be so much of a non-event that it shouldn't even catch my attention.

But...

It has. It's caught my attention in a way that I can't even logically comprehend.

And I'm not fine with it.

I'm really not.

And I'll be damned if I can understand why. Or just why it is I'm so fucking fixated on it.

It's not as though I could possibly be...

No.

Of course I'm not... interested... in Will. Well, not in... that... way, anyway. It wouldn't be right. He's probably firmly of the opinion that if he ever has to be involved in anything of a sexual nature ever again it'll still be far too soon for his liking.

And... Fuck it. Even thinking that I could be... thinking that is just plain wrong.

Only... If that isn't what I'm thinking, then... What am I thinking, huh?

I was fine. Everything was going just fine right up until Will had climbed out of the BMW and Benji, clearly not having heard a word I'd said to him on the phone when he called to say that he was en route to Dulles to catch the first flight that he could to Heathrow, had barrelled straight up to him and engulfed him in a bear hug.

Then... Things, for me anyway, weren't going so fine at all. For Benji and Will though? Hell. They were still fine. In fact, I think they were probably even more than fine. Will, just as I'd expected he would, froze at Benji's very physical invasion of his personal space for, oh, all of two seconds, before just melting against him and hugging him back. And Benji, he was blinking back tears of relief and happiness and embracing Will as though his very life depended on it.

While I just stood there on the driveway, my mouth still open in anticipation of having to intervene, and feeling somewhat like a third wheel.

It was a touching scene. Perfectly innocent and heartfelt, and, if anything, I should have felt privileged to have been witnessing it. They were both so happy to see each other that, for a moment at least, everything else was forgotten and they just lost themselves in the emotion of their – never, on both their parts, thought likely to occur – reunion. Benji forgot that the man in his arms was a shadow of his former self, and Will forgot that having someone touch him like that was still a long way off from making it on to the list of his favourite activities. They embraced as friends and as equals, and it would have been a lovely thing to see if, out of freakin' nowhere, I hadn't found myself wishing to be in Benji's place.

I... wanted to be the one hugging Will.

Will, who, because he thought it would help take my mind off where we were and what had happened to me last time I'd tried to cross under the Channel that way, put himself out by talking throughout the entire time we were on the train in the tunnel, and who trusted me because he thought I'd done a far better job of taking care of him than I ever would have thought I had. Will, who, despite the fact I wasn't really being serious at all and just mentioned it by way of changing the subject, seemed quite taken with the idea of joining me on the Eurostar whenever I wanted to put my mild tunnel-phobia to bed once and for all.

Will, who...

… I'm taken with.

Maybe playing the dual roles of baby-sitter and nursemaid for him has gone to my head and he's become, without me even being aware of it, something of a pet-project, something I've become used to... working on... and which, when it's over and he's gone, I'll go through a period of feeling lost without.

It's just...

I look at him, and I see how far he's come in such a small time-frame and how amazing he truly is, and I realise just how much he's come to mean to me.

He's not just a project, or a way to get to the mole, he's...

Special.

He trusts me, seems to like me well enough, and for the first time in over a year he's someone I actually want to be with.

And that, in a nutshell, is why I'm both harbouring these unbecoming feelings of jealousy towards Benji and hiding out, under the cover of taking a nap before starting my stint of monitoring the camera feeds coming in live from Ashford International Station, in the rental property's small second bedroom. Although it's only been for a little less than a week, I'd grown used to being Will's, well, everything, and now, despite knowing that I'm being irrational, if not even a bit of a selfish prick, I look at Benji not as welcome assistance but as competition. 

Which is wrong.

I can apply logic to the mass of confusing thoughts running riot in my head until it's coming out of my ears, but, to my great annoyance, nothing seems to work. They're friends. It's not as though Benji's actively going out of his way to either monopolise Will's time or push me away. So what if they hugged? I don't have a monopoly on Will either and, besides, it's not like I've been sitting around just waiting for the right time to – randomly – grab him for a hug anyway. Hell, I hadn't even thought about... getting that up close and personal... with him until Benji made his move. That, and, who's to say, assuming I had at some point made the same move as Benji, Will wouldn't have reacted exactly the same way? God knows he doesn't seem to have an issue with me putting my hand on his shoulder, arm or leg and, what's more, he also seems perfectly okay in touching me in the same way. So, you know, it's not like he's scared of me or totally anti the entire concept of physical contact. Then there was that time a couple of days ago when he allowed me to put my arm around his shoulder and he fell asleep against me on the sofa. Clearly he was okay with that as well and I bet, if I had ever tried to hug him, that he wouldn't have minded and may even have hugged me back.

If that is, I'd ever thought of hugging him.

Which I hadn't.

And which, however, I now can't stop thinking about.

Stupid. It's just fucking stupid, that's what it is.

I don't... want... to hug Will. There's no... reason... for me to want to hug Will, and it doesn't matter that he's somehow managed to get under my skin as once this is all over we'll go our separate ways and that'll be the end of it.

I'm just behaving petulantly, like a small child who has had their favourite toy taken off them and given to someone else, because, apparently, I can, and I need to pull my head out of my ass and get over it. Skulking around in the bedroom while Benji and Will set up all the surveillance equipment and do all of the work isn't exactly achieving anything and I just have to both get with the program and get moving. And, if I am to be the third wheel in this odd, cobbled together team, then I simply need to suck that up as well and just get on with it.

The bedroom door suddenly opening, I push myself up into a sitting position and watch as Benji bustles through it and grabs his bag from off the floor and dumps it onto the room's second bed. Unzipping it, he ferrets through the bag for a few seconds and, after throwing what I'm amused to see is a Star Trek DVD on to the mattress, pulls out a brown woollen cardigan that I swear looks like one I remember my grandfather – who was over eighty at the time – having worn thirty years ago. Straightening up, he shakes out the cardigan and starts to put in on. Now, clearly having been in his own little world the entire time he's been in the room with me, it's only once his right arm is through the sleeve of the cardigan and he's scrabbling around to reach the left one that he... finally... realises that he's not alone and the comical looking expression of shock that immediately takes up residence on his face when he spots me sitting there, just staring back at him from the other bed, is so great that I can't help but laugh.

“Surprise,” I mutter, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed and placing my feet on the floor.

“I... Ethan. Oh God... I'm sorry. I... Shit! I forgot you were taking a nap. I... Shit, shit, shit! Did I wake you? Shit! I bet that I woke you. I... I'm sorry. I really terribly sorry,” Benji babbles as, giving up on trying to get his left arm through the sleeve, he just stands there, gazing at me with obvious horror as the cardigan hangs half off him. “I... I didn't mean to wake you. It... It's just that I was starting to get a little cold and wanted to get my... Uh...” Noticing that he's only half in his cardigan, he hurriedly pulls it fully on and flashes me an apologetic grin. “Sorry. Seeing as I've got what I come for, I'll...”

“As I wasn't asleep, you didn't wake me, and, it's okay,” I interrupt, glancing down at my watch and seeing that, as it's just gone past seven in the evening, I've wasted over three hours of my life lying here doing nothing. Just... Go me. “I was about to get up anyway,” I add, stretching my arms up above my head. “If you were getting cold though, how's Will? Do you think he needs...”

“Given that I think Will's wearing enough layers to make him the sort of person you wouldn't want to be having to play strip poker against, I... Oh! Shit!” Realising just how inappropriate, although I wasn't going to make anything of it myself and I doubt it would have caused Will to have a melt down if he'd heard it either, his comment was, Benji claps his hand over his mouth and shakes his head. “I... What I meant was...”

“That he shouldn't be cold as he already has enough clothes on,” I finish as, shrugging, I look over at him and make a very deliberate point of both catching and holding his worried looking gaze. “It's okay, Benji, I know what you meant, and I know that you didn't mean anything by it. So... Come on. Stop looking like you're in danger of choking on your own foot, and don't worry about it.”

“Actually...” Sighing, Benji shifts around the bed and sinks down onto the edge of the mattress so that he's not only sitting directly in front of me but, as the room's so small and the beds are so close together, his knees are all but touching mine. “Ethan, I... I'm worried about Will,” he murmurs, giving me the sort of open, hopeful look that tells me he's counting on me to find the right words to put his mind at rest. “What if... I mean, do you think he's going to be okay? Just... Be honest with me. Do... Do you really think that he'll be able to make it?”

“Of course I do,” I reply, frowning as – feeling a mixture of both overly suspicious or pessimistic here – I immediately start to wonder about just what it is Benji's... not... saying. “Don't forget that it's still early days and that he's just taking every day as it comes, but... Why? Why do you ask? He's got a long road ahead of him, of course he does, but I can't think of any reason why he won't be able to make it through. Benji? Is there something you're not telling me?”

“I... I know that I shouldn't have, but...” Dropping his gaze, Benji fiddles with a loose piece of wool hanging off the right cuff of his cardigan. “That website, the one you had me take down, I...”

“Benji...” Damn. Just call me a clairvoyant, but I suddenly think I know what it is he's going to say, and, oh yeah, it's not something I want to hear. “Don't tell me that you...”

“I looked at it,” Benji confesses dully as, noticing that he's going to start unravelling his sleeve if he's not careful, he gives up his attack on the piece of wool and folds his hands on his lap. “Uh... That is... I actually saved it. I know that's not what you told me to do, that... all you wanted me to do was take it down, but I... I wanted to look at it. I... Shit! That... That's not what I mean, not what I mean at all.” Realising that he's once again – no doubt accidentally – said the wrong thing, he sighs and shoots me a despairing look. “I didn't want to look at it, of course I didn't, but I... I thought that if I saved a copy of the site that I could, you know, check out the other... uh... models. Not... Shit! Not like... that, but... Seeing that Will was there against his... uh... will, I thought that there might have been a chance that some of the others were too and, by... check them out, that's what I meant... I wanted to see if I could discover who they were and whether the club was... uh... more or less above board.”

“And?” I prompt, leaning forward to show Benji that, despite the misgivings I'm still experiencing in relation to this particular topic, I am actually interested in what he's got to say. “I take it that you were able to run facial recognition and...”

“As far as I was able to work anyway, everyone apart from Will was there because they seemed to want to be,” Benji mutters, wrinkling his nose in what could be either distaste or disbelief. “I was able to identify them without too much difficulty from license or passport photos and the like, and only one of them, a young woman, had once been listed as a missing person. But... Before you get all excited over that like I did, she's since come forward and... uh... basically came out to her family that she's chosen to live the life of a... uh... slave and that she signed the club's contract solely because it was what she wanted, what she's... always wanted, apparently. And... That, I gather, is pretty much the case for everyone. A few have their own... strange, and kinky, very, very kinky websites, others have day jobs and even partners that they occasionally go home to, and... Well, while I thought my idea was a good one, that I was showing some initiative and... possibly even going to throw the case wide open with my astonishing discoveries, all that I got out of it was an introduction to a world I don't understand and... don't want to understand, and... Yeah... As it turns out, as ideas go, I've certainly had better ones.”

“I don't know about that,” I reply, reaching out and placing my hand briefly over his. “While, okay, you may not have uncovered a kidnapping ring or anything like that, your idea was a sound, logical one and I think you should give yourself some credit for having both thought of it and followed through with it. Fine. You may not have found out what... you'd possibly been expecting to find out, but you still identified everyone and, because of this, we know we don't have to spend much more time on the club. So... It's okay. Seriously, Benji, you did good.”

“Good?” he echoes, screwing his face up as, leaning back, he places his hands flat on the mattress and gazes at a point somewhere above my head. “I... might... have done good if I'd left it at that. But, no. I... And I don't even know why. Oh God, Ethan, you've got to believe me. I don't know why I did this, but I... I looked. At Will. I found Will's page and, instead of just shutting it down like I should have, I... I looked at it. And I found, hidden behind one of the pictures, video footage. They... They'd recorded him! I know I shouldn't have, but...”

“Benji...” I don't know what to say. I told him not to look, but he did, and for his troubles he found something I just don't want to know about it. It doesn't surprise me that such footage exists, or even that they had it hidden away on their site, but, to be perfectly frank, I just really didn't need to have it confirmed. “Just... Whatever it was that you saw, don't... Just don't think about it,” I state, tapping my finger on Benji's knee so that he'll sit up and look at me. “I can't do anything about the fact that you've seen it any more than I can undo the fact that it happened in the first place, but... Look. It's history. Will's alive, and he's free, and that's what you've got to focus on.”

“You... You didn't see it,” Benji whispers as he sits up not to look at me but to rub his hands over his face. “Ethan, they... and there were two of them, they were making him beg, and...”

“It's in the past. It happened, and we can't do anything to change that, but it's over. Will's safe, and what we've all got to focus on is that he's here, and... what's ahead of us, not what's behind us.”

“But... What I saw, it...”

“It happened. And, again, there's sadly not a thing we can do about it.”

“Will, he... He didn't deserve...”

“Of course he didn't deserve it, and I'm as sorry as anyone that it had to happen to him, but... It's history and that, and that alone, is what you need to concentrate on.”

“But, I...” Dropping his hands away from his face, Benji looks at me and sighs heavily. “What if he can't come back from it? I mean, if... if that's what happened to him for months, how on earth is he supposed to...”

“It'll have changed him, of course it will have,” I interject with a sigh of my own as I rest my hands on Benji's knees. “That, however, doesn't for a second have to mean that he can't come back from it. It's not going to easy, and he's going to need help, but I have every confidence that he can do it.” Pausing, I lean closer to Benji and wait until he's reluctantly holding my gaze before adding, “Seeing as you knew Will before any of this happened, when you look at him, what do you see? Do you see something that makes you think he's... not... going to make it?”

“He... He looks ill,” Benji mumbles.

“That's because he is,” I reply, shrugging. “Physically he's run down and I suspect that if he were to have a blood test we'd discover that he'd still have the residue of whatever the drugs were that they had him on running through him. He's also still a little sore, probably suffering from a constant, low level headache, and, you're right, if he's feeling tired he really does look like death warmed up. But... If we move past his looks for a moment, what about his... demeanour or personality? Is there anything about the way he's behaving that's making you... not see the man you know in him?”

Something in my question getting through to Benji in a way that I hadn't been counting on, he suddenly smiles and gives a quick shake of his head. “Actually... No. When you put it that way, he... He's still very much just... Will,” he murmurs, grinning with evident relief as he claps his hands down over mine. “He's even quieter than normal, yeah, but he's still the most logical person that I know, and... he's still putting what he feels are the needs of others before his own... So... You're right. He's still Will and, like you said, in time he'll be fine. It...” Standing up, he gives me a hug that's as brusque as it is quick before walking over to stand by the foot of the bed. “It's been great talking to you, Ethan, it really has.”

“Uh... Thanks.” Getting to my feet, I shoot Benji a curious look and shrug. “Just... What do you mean, though, about him putting the needs of others first? We're the only ones here, so...”

“Thinking you might have had enough of him, he's been staying with me not because he's transfixed by my scintillating company but because he's wanting to give you a break,” Benji explains with a shrug of his own. “I told him not to be stupid and that, as you're not exactly renowned for holding back your opinion, he'd know about it if you'd had enough of him, but... That's just Will. He doesn't want to out stay his welcome or put you out, so... he's backed off to give you space.”

“Oh...” And, just like that, I now feel even more pathetic than I did before Benji walked in to the room. “I thought...” Fuck. Honesty might be the best policy and all of that, but how can I say it? How can I tell Benji that – and why beat around the bush here – I've been up here sulking because I'd gotten it in to my fool head that I thought Will had specifically chosen him over me and, for no clear reason, mind you, it was making me green with jealousy?

“You're not standing there seriously trying to tell me that you were jealous?” Benji laughs merrily as, having no idea that he's actually right and it isn't a laughing matter at all, he gives me a happily amused look. “Get real, Ethan,” he continues, still snickering away to himself. “I know I'm only joking, but, come on, you can stop looking at me like that. Will and I might know each other, but, trust me, you're still the one he'd prefer to be around.”

“Of course you're only joking,” I mutter dismissively, shifting past Benji as I make to walk out of the room. “I suspect, too, that you'd have to be wrong about Will preferring...”

“Nope,” Benji interjects as, still looking blissfully unaware of just how astute he's actually being, he joins me in the doorway and gives me a friendly bump with his hip. “Prefer mightn't be the right way to put it, but, ever since you've been up here, every time the house has creaked or he's thought he heard something, he's looked over towards the door and I just know that it was because he was hoping to see you walk back through it. So... Come on. Seeing as you've already done a reasonable sort of job of reassuring me and cheering me up, how about coming back downstairs and sharing your... award-winning personality with Will?”

“Award-winning, huh?” I smirk, going along with Benji's light-hearted teasing because it's both easier and preferable to the truth. Whether Will has actually been looking for me to return to the living area or not, I know that I can't go on like I have been and that I just have to wake up to myself and get on with things. My attack of – illogical – petulance hasn't achieved anything, I've neglected both the reason we're even here for and the two men who, as unofficial team leader, I... should... be here for, and it's time to just put it all behind me and move on.

Jealous?

Pathetic, more like.

“Well, as we wouldn't even be here without you, I'm down with award-winning,” Benji replies as he steps through the door and waits for me to join him on the landing. “Just don't let it go to your head, though.”

“As I'm already puffed up with my own self-importance,” I retort, walking out of the bedroom and shooting Benji a smug look as I head towards the stairs, “sorry... It's too late for that as the damage has already been done.” Laughing, I wait until Benji's behind me before starting to walk down the stairs. “It's okay. You'll learn soon enough that if you give me an inch I'll take a mile.”

“Not wanting to make the same mistake of... stoking your ego... again, I'll be sure to remember that.”

“Just don't forget you're the one who started it.” Reaching the bottom of the stairs just as Will walks out of the living room, I smile a greeting at him and, as he gives both of us an anxious look, immediately make my way over to him. “Will? You okay?”

“I... Maybe it's nothing, but I... I saw someone that I think... might... be familiar,” he replies hesitantly as he gestures us into the living room and towards the bank of computers and monitors that Benji set up with great expertise – thanks largely, or so he claims anyway, to more hours spent setting up LAN parties with fellow like minded geeks than he cares to admit to – to facilitate our surveillance of the train station. “I could be wrong, In fact I... I'm probably wrong, but... If it's okay I'd like someone else to have a look...”

“Of course we'll take a look,” I reply, frowning at Benji over my shoulder as I follow Will across to our temporary control centre. It's not that I doubt Will, but if he really has recognised our mole already then that's almost as alarming as it is... promising... as it means that not only has our trap worked, but also that he's moved with incredible speed to place himself in the position he feels he needs to be in to... correct his mistake of having let Will live.

“It's quick, yeah,” Benji mutters, shrugging as he gets in step with me, “but it still fits into our time-frame, so...”

“Don't get too excited,” Will replies as he takes a seat in the chair in front of the bank of monitors and reaches for the laptop that controls all of the live-feed images coming through on their screens. “I... I'm sure that I have to be wrong and am probably just imagining things, but...I don't know. Although you never get a clear look at him, he... he just looks familiar somehow. But... Whatever. I'm probably wrong and am just wasting your time, so...”

“Don't be too sure of that,” I respond, dragging another chair over and taking a seat next to Will as Benji props himself up against the back of the sofa. “As Benji just said, although it's a little earlier than we perhaps expected, his arrival, if it is him, still fits inside our time window.”

“Just think about it. We called in the news that Ethan had found you alive just after you got here last night,” Benji pipes up, “which, as you already know, would have been around nine at night, D.C. time. Now, taking into account flight times and all the fuss and bother attached to flying halfway around the world, we decided that the absolute earliest anyone could have got over here was around three this afternoon as that would have given them fourteen hours to fit in both an eight hour flight and everything else. So... Hey. It's seven now, which would have given him eighteen hours, so...”

“Although it would have had to have meant he was lurking around HQ pretty late at night, there's absolutely no reason you can't be on to something here,” I add, picking up where Benji had left off and giving Will an encouraging smile as, still looking far from convinced, he wafts his fingers over the laptop's keyboard.

“Maybe, as it would mean he... wasn't... as desperate to get me as this guy, if it is him, of course, is, I... I'm just... hoping to be wrong,” Will whispers, “but... Here. Have a look for yourself.” Bringing a feed recorded from one of the platforms at the station up on to the biggest of the monitors, Will sighs and points up at the screen. “This was about twenty-five minutes ago,” he explains. “The train that's just arrived is one of the high-speed trains from out of London and, although it's hard to see him through all the commuters, there's this one guy who caught my attention. See... There.” Tapping his finger against the screen, he highlights a large, powerfully built man wearing an Adidas t-shirt that's struggling to contain all of his over-worked muscles and whose face is conveniently hidden by a large, also emblazoned with the familiar Adidas logo, trucker cap. “I know you can't make out his face, but... Look. Instead of filing out of the station like all of the other commuters, he heads over to the international section of the station and seems to be checking it out.”

“He also seems to know where all the cameras are,” I comment, leaning forward and squinting at the screen as, like Will, although I can't say with any degree of confidence that I recognise the man, he's nonetheless raising enough flags with me to make him of considerable interest. “Just... Look at him. While I agree with you that he definitely seems to be scoping the international part of the station out, notice how he's keeping his head lowered and how not one of the cameras has been able to get a shot of his face. Shit. He's definitely up to something, but... Who is he? I think I might have seen him somewhere before, but... Right now, anyway, I'll be damned if I know where.”

“I think I might know,” Benji mutters as he pushes away from the sofa and, crouching down next to Will, pulls the laptop away from him. “Sorry, I don't want to appear rude, but I've got an idea as to how we might be able to catch a shot of his face.”

“You... do?” Will murmurs with obvious surprise. “But... How? I tracked him through the station before getting you and I swear I never caught a shot of his face on any of the cameras. I even swapped to the one outside of the station and, just like he knew it was there, he was still looking down as he walked off.”

“If it's who I think it is,” Benji replies, his fingers dancing across the keyboard as he brings an entirely different feed up on to the screen, “I have a good idea of where he might have gone after leaving the station and... uh... that's where I'm hoping to catch him. It... It's just a hunch, but... Just give me a few seconds and with any luck we'll have our answer.”

Rolling my chair even closer to Will's I place my hand on his arm and shrug. “Benji's mind, huh... It works in many strange and wonderful ways.”

“It'll only be wonderful if I'm right,” Benji retorts as he gazes with obvious impatience at the screen which, if I'm not mistaken, now seems to be showing what looks to be a shopping centre of all things. “This, as I'm sure you're both wondering, is the Ashford Outlet Village. It's pretty much directly across the road from the station and, if it is who I think it is, I reckon there's a good chance he would have headed straight over there once he'd finished getting his first view of the international station. And... A-ha! Look! There he is!” Beaming triumphantly, Benji stands up and, as Will and I share confused looks, claps his hands together. “Got you, you bastard! I knew you couldn't resist an Adidas store!”

“Uh...” Standing up, I walk over to Benji and stare at the – uninteresting, to me, anyway – scene being played out in real-time on the screen. While, yes, I can see the man in the Adidas t-shirt both standing out the front of, oddly enough, the Adidas store and looking directly up into the camera so that his face is clearly visible, I still don't recognise him and and quickly decide that I may just have to resort to physically shaking Benji if he doesn't get on with sharing just what it is he knows about him. “At the risk of asking the obvious here, who exactly am I looking at?”

“That sadistic, and I've always thought steroid-popping, arsehole, Nick Salter,” Benji explains as, delighted by his discovery, he quite literally bounces up and down on the spot with excitement. “You know, that muscle-bound rock ape from the gym, the one that always seems to be there regardless of how much effort you put in to trying to avoid him. I used to think that he couldn't have had much of a life seeing as he always seemed to be working, but, hey, if he is our mole, just think about how much intel he would have been able to pick up on simply by constantly lurking around the gym.”

“And, as a civilian, he wouldn't have had to pass the same security checks as the rest of us,” I mutter, scowling as, suddenly, everything – at long last – starts to fall into place. “Nor would we ever have thought to include him in any of... well... anything. We'd never think to track his whereabouts, or whether he had any links to any of the missions as...”

“As he wouldn't have had any links we ever would have been able to pick up on,” Benji adds, nodding as he claps his hands together again. “But, always being in the gym like he was, he could have overheard just about anything and everything.”

“Not to mention from just about... anyone,” I continue, watching the screen as the man I now know to be Salter walks into the Adidas store and disappears from view. “Fuck! I just don't fucking believe this. A... A gym instructor! I've even done a session or two with him myself and, you're right, he is an asshole and he... is... always there. Think about it though, if it hadn't been for Will coming up with this plan, it's unlikely that we ever would have even found him. Just... Hell. I probably wouldn't even believe it myself if I wasn't looking at it. This... This is a whole new...”

“Ball game?”

“I was going to say... low... actually.”

“Yeah, well... That too.” Shaking his head, Benji looks away from the monitor and, not liking whatever it is he sees, frowns in consternation. “Uh... Where's Will gone?”

“I...” Looking away from the screen, I note that Benji's right in that Will has indeed somehow managed to slip silently away and, knowing that I have to find him as now probably isn't the time for him to be on his own, immediately begin to walk out of the room. “I don't know,” I state lamely, “but if you're okay with keeping an eye on Salter, I think I'd better find him. Uh...” Pausing, I glance over my shoulder at Benji and shrug. “Unless, that is, you'd rather...”

“Oh God, no,” Benji interjects as he sits himself down in the chair Will had been sitting in and focusses his attention on the monitors. “I love Will, I really do, but as I don't even want to begin to imagine what he must be going through, let alone run the risk of accidentally saying the wrong thing to him, he's all yours.”

Muttering, “You're all heart,” under my breath, I walk out of the living area and, wanting to check out the ground floor before heading up the stairs, make my way into the kitchen where, to my great relief, I find Will. Leaning flat against the wall, and with both his head tilted back and his eyes closed, he looks as though it's taking a lot out of him to keep it together and, not really knowing what else to do, I walk over and replicate his position next to him. Resting my back against the wall, I look up at the ceiling and, as Benji mentioned, try not think about just what it is that has to be running through his head at the moment. 

Nick Salter. Gym instructor. Mole. Capital 'A' Asshole.

I look at him and, in the form of a leak that's done untold damage and which has to be stopped, what I see is a cancerous growth. Insidious, undetectable, and more than capable of deadly consequences.

Will, though... When he looks at him he sees the man...

… Who sold him out, and who raped him, and who, by giving him that photo of his name on on the Wall of Remembrance, destroyed any hope he had in ever being rescued and which effectively caused him to simply give up.

Where I see looming, long overdue victory, Will sees, and quite rightly so, too, both the face of Evil and someone who he'd hoped never to see again.

“We...” Sliding my hand along the wall, I find Will's and both take it in mine and squeeze it tightly. “We've got him. You'll see, Will. We've got the bastard in our sights and it's nearly over. So... Just hang in there for a little longer as... We've got him...”

~*~*~*~


	12. Chapter 12

~*~*~*~ 

Nick Salter.

Or, as he was christened by his parents forty-four years ago when he was born in some dead end, middle of nowhere hole in Russia, Nikita Orlov, he...

He just blows my fucking mind. He really does.

Under our noses, carefully positioned to overhear a never ending stream of confidential information, pretty much above suspicion because he was only a lowly gym instructor and never involved in either the gathering of intel or missions, acquaintance – not wildly liked, but everyone from the Director himself down to the newest recruit passed through the gym at some time or another – to everyone in the Goddamn building, a mere civilian employed to keep us at peak fitness, a...

Nobody, really

He was just a nobody.

A gym Nazi who didn't seem to have a life outside of his work and who, if, that is, they bothered to have an opinion on him at all, most people assumed to have something of a steroid addiction given his bulky physical and close to complete lack of personality. He was good enough at his job to keep it, but then again I've always pretty much been of the opinion that just about anyone can bark orders at someone sweating it out on a treadmill or running around a track like some barely glorified hamster on a wheel, so it's not exactly as though it was a position he had to shine in. If I passed through the gym and he was there, I recognised him as an instructor, and know I've even trained under him a couple of times, but that was as far as my... engagement... with him ever went. I never, until now, that is, knew his name, and highly doubt I would have recognised him myself if I'd been the one monitoring the surveillance footage when he popped up on it. As far as anyone was concerned, he was just a gym instructor. Possibly an over-dedicated one who just happened to have a bit of a problem with steroids, but still just a gym instructor.

A nobody.

A nobody, however, who just, as we now know thanks to the intel Jane's been able dig up on him back in D.C., happened to have family ties to the Bratva, the Russian Mafia.

As simple, close to perfect plans go, this one was in a fucking league of its own. I'm not easily impressed, and God knows this isn't exactly the sort of thing I want to be viewing with a reluctant sense of awe, but...

Damn.

It was good.

Really fucking good.

Position Salter inside IMF by getting him a job as a gym instructor. Have him there for a year, just long enough for him to have become part of the furniture and for everyone to simply take his presence for granted, and then 'activate' him. Collect all the information being fed back to the organisation by their man on the inside, and act on it in whichever way best suited your needs. Sit back and bask in the self-satisfied glory of knowing that, as a civilian with no access to anything in the building other than the gym, he'll never be suspected and that the flood of intel will go on for however long you want it to.

Again, it really was a near on perfect plan.

By placing him in the gym instead of, say, the cafeteria or firing range, he would have had access to more intel than he probably would have known what to do with. While both the cafeteria and firing range would have been too noisy, not to mention the fact that people are generally more focussed on the task at hand – eat and go, or shoot and go – to want to linger, the gym really would have just had it all. There not being one gym for agents and another for tech support or the Powers That Be, everyone uses it and, once they're there, a lot of people are only too happy to chat and unwind. Be it side by side on the treadmills, or loitering by the lockers, or having a quick game of squash or one-on-one basketball, people talk in the gym, and they talk freely. It's on IMF property, everyone in it is employed by IMF, and anything goes. Mission talk, venting about whoever it is that's had the misfortune to piss you off, macho discussions about sex lives, conversations about what car to buy, gossip about the FBI, or CIA, or Interpol, or the KGB, actual mission planning while you take a breather in the sauna or spa...

People talk in the gym because they can, and because, having no reason to think to the contrary, they assume it to be safe.

It...

It just explains everything. From how the mole was able to have an impact on such a great many missions, to how, given that the Bratva still have a far bigger presence in Europe than they do in the States, so many of the cases involved Interpol, and all the way down to how the bastard knew what number locker Will had. 

In a way, the gym can be seen as the heart of IMF as everyone relies on it.

All he had to do was lurk, place the odd bug or two, and listen. As jobs go it was pretty much a dream one.

And, although it does more than just pain me to admit this, he could have got away with it indefinitely. I mean, why would anyone turn their attention to a lowly gym instructor? I know I wouldn't have. Hell, I'd have suspected the Director himself before I lowered my standards to working my way through the boring ranks of all of the civilians employed by IMF.

If Will hadn't come up with his – equally as simple and perfect – plan of sneaking in to Ashford and monitoring the International Station...

If I'd been the one watching the feed at the time...

If Benji hadn't put two and two together and had a flash of brilliance in respect to jumping across to a camera in the Outlet Village in order to confirm that, yes, unlike either Will or myself he did actually know who the man was...

If Salter's sad obsession with all things Adidas hadn't got the better of him and he'd just snuck out of the station and disappeared from camera view without us having been able to identify him...

If he'd ignored the temptation of coming for Will personally and had just called on the services of a minion...

Ultimately it doesn't have to matter as, regardless of how exactly we were able to manage it, we've got him now and I should be lying here waiting to slide off to sleep instead of going over and over everything in my head, but, as is always the case when a mission reaches a critical point, my mind is just buzzing and I can't switch it off.

Nick Salter. Nikita Orlov. Bratva. 

Will.

Luck.

Just how unbelievably fucking lucky we've been. From finding Will in the first place... to both Benji and Jane knowing him well enough to willingly give their time to our cause... to Salter falling hook, line and sinker for our trap...

So easy...

… It all could have so easily gone the other way.

Yet... Here we all are.

Will, safe and hopefully asleep in the main bedroom across the corridor. Benji, exhausted from having gone through just about every CCTV feed in Ashford in order to track Salter to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, asleep and snoring softly in the bed next to the one I'm lying in. Jane, back in D.C. and going through both Nick Salter's life and apartment with a fine tooth comb while she waits anxiously by the phone for our next move. Salter, biding his time both until the morning when he can go back to staking out the station and until he's once again got his sweaty paws on Will.

And, it ends now.

It does.

At some point during the next eighteen or so hours I'm going to stroll in to the station and – hopefully without giving in to the urge to just lodge a bullet in the bastard's forehead – take Salter down as he waits, in vain, for Will to step off a train. His connection to the Russian Mafia having upped the stakes to an even higher level than they were before, the only reason I haven't just marched around to the warehouse and played the 'Gotcha' card already is because I'm hoping he calls a few of his Bratva buddies out to play as, wanting to do as much damage as I can, I'd love nothing more than to take some of their henchmen down with him. It's a risk. I know that, and perhaps I should just be happy with what I've already got. Salter though, he's just a carefully placed grunt and, now that we know everything that we do, I want to hurt his handlers as much as I possibly can. If they don't come, I'll be content enough – and how – with Salter, and if I have my way I'll ensure I get enough quality, alone time with him to learn what I want from him anyway, but, hey, if I can get a couple of Bratva with him, then... bonus.

A loud, strangled sounding cry coming from the other bedroom causing my – blood to run cold – eyes to fly open, I sit up and, after throwing the bedding back, have barely placed my feet on the floor before, with a startled gasp of his own, Benji jerks awake and immediately turns on the lamp on the bedside table between our beds.

“Huh? What?” he grunts, sitting bolt upright in bed and giving me a confused – 'who are you, where am I, and what am I doing here?' – look. “Ethan? What are you... Uh... Was that you?”

Shaking my head, I stand up and begin to walk towards the door. “Will,” I respond. “It sounds like he must have been having a nightmare.”

“Or was being murdered in his bed,” Benji mutters as he crawls down to the foot of the bed and half falls off it before both stumbling to his feet and reaching for me. “Uh... Let me,” he continues, placing his hand on my arm and smiling grimly. “What I said earlier about him being all yours? I... He's my friend too and I... I didn't mean it. So... You go back to bed and I'll... I don't know what I'll do exactly, but I... I'll give it my best shot, anyway.”

“It's okay, Benji,” I interrupt, giving him a grim smile of my own as I pick up his hand and give it a quick squeeze. “I'm up now and... I'm good to go. Will and I seem to have this understanding, anyway. He patiently allows me to... practice... my rusty, make that.. very rusty... caring and sharing side on him and somehow, don't ask me how, we always just seem to be able to make it work out.”

“Are you sure? I don't want you to think that I...”

“It's okay,” I repeat, gesturing Benji back to his bed as, wanting to get this over and done with, I move further towards the door. “Just go back to bed and try to get some sleep.”

“You'll...”

“I'll call on your no doubt more caring and sharing services if he wants nothing to do with me or I feel as though I'm only making matters worse,” I confirm with a nod. “It's okay, Benji. Seriously. This isn't my forte, but... Will... He's seemed okay with my attempts in the past, so...”

His smile brightening, Benji sinks down on the edge of his bed and, with a shrug, makes what looks to be 'shooing' gestures at the door. “You're too hard on yourself, Ethan. The pair of you have already made it this far and I'm sure, although the offer of taking your place still stands if you want me to go instead, that you'll do just fine. So... Go.”

Not needing telling twice, I nod and, wishing that I shared Benji's obvious confidence in my abilities, slip out of the room. I want to go to Will because, more than anything, I want to know that he's okay. I'm also quite fine with knocking back Benji's kind offer to go in my stead because, again, my number one concern at the moment is Will himself and I want to be able to see with my own eyes that he's not in too bad a place. Just what it is I'm going to walk in to when I open the door to his room though, I...

I just hope I can handle it, that's all. 

It wasn't as though I lied to Benji when I said that, really, when it comes to all of my dealings with Will it's been something of a case of 'so far, so good'. He tolerates my tentative ministrations and they usually have the desired effect of getting through to him, but... Shit. He hasn't had a nightmare before and I can't help but be worried in respect to what this, seeing as it really is the first one I'm aware of him having, might mean for his fragile mental state. Identifying Salter would have come as a huge shock to him and for all I know it could have been – his undoing – the straw that broke the camel's back. Just because I'm all excited and bubbling over with enthusiasm for everything we've discovered and how close we are to finally ending the fucker's reign of terror doesn't for a second mean that Will has to be feeling the same way. Compared to Will, who lived it, I'm little more than an interested observer and, as always, I just have to remember that he still has to come first. 

The end game might be in tantalising sight, but I can't forget that what's exciting for me stands a fair chance of being, if not terrifying, then at the very least... unnerving... to Will.

Given that, without the bastard ever laying a finger on me or fucking with any mission I was personally involved with, I despise Salter with just about every fibre of my body, I...

I can't even begin to fathom how Will must feel about him.

So...

Nightmare.

If he's had a nightmare about Salter, I can handle it.

I... have... to handle it.

Reaching the bedroom, I don't bother going through the motions of knocking on the door and just push it open. Courtesy of Will still not being any more fond of sleeping in complete darkness than he was back in the flat in Paris, the room is already lit by a soft glow coming from the lamp on the bedside table and, although I know that I shouldn't, that I should have better control, I can't help but sigh as I walk over to the bed and take a seat on the edge of the mattress.

Just...

Here we go.

I'm not going anywhere, and, never having been one to give up without a fight, I'm here for the long haul, but...

Shit.

All I can say is that it must have been some nightmare.

Sitting on the bed with his back pressed against the bedhead, knees drawn up to his chest and with his lowered head resting on his folded arms, Will doesn't so much as glance at me as I gingerly position myself in – assuming, that is, he ever looks up – his line of sight. Perfectly still, and with what little skin – forehead, hands and, seeing as at some point he managed to kick all the bedding down to the foot of the bed, feet – I can see a pale, almost lifeless colour, he looks like a barely breathing statue of misery and defeat, and, out of nowhere, what I suddenly want more than anything is to just take him in my arms and hug him.

I won't.

Of course I won't, but...

… I want to.

Not because I want to... get one over on Benji, or even just to prove to myself that I can, that he's as okay with being hugged by me as he is by Benji, but because I simply want to be there for him in a way that's always best demonstrated by the power of touch.

Again, I'm not going to because I don't want to give him the wrong idea or inadvertently risk all hell breaking loose, but I'd like to. I just really would. 

“I'm not even going to ask if you're okay,” I murmur as Will finally acknowledges my presence by turning his head away from me, “because, clearly, you're not.”

“I'm fine,” he mumbles automatically as, pressing his ankles even closer together, he pulls his knees further up towards his chest.

“No. You're not,” I reply, making a point of sitting up straighter so that, again, should he ever look at me, he won't feel as though I'm crowding him.

“I'm fine,” Will repeats, his voice muffled as he directs his response to his knees.

“Sorry. But we're going to have to agree to differ on that point.”

“I... I'm... I'm sorry for having woken you,” he murmurs, changing tack just a little as he continues to throw everything he's got in to refusing to look at me.

“You didn't wake me as I wasn't asleep.”

“I'm still sorry for bothering you, for... putting you out.”

“You're not putting me out and you've got nothing to apologise for.”

“You... You should be in bed.”

“So should you.”

“I...”

“And don't say you're... on... the bed as that doesn't count.”

“I... I'm sorry,” Will whispers, changing position slightly so that he's hugging his arms around his shins and, still all the time looking away from me, resting his cheek on his knee. “You don't need to...”

“Nightmare?” I query, taking a leaf out of his book and doing my bit to break free from the going-nowhere loop we appear to already be stuck in.

“I...” He nods. 

“Salter?”

Will nods again. “Sorry. You don't have to...”

“You know you're safe, right?” I interject, not letting him finish because, basically, I just don't want to hear it. He's entitled to his opinion, of course he is, but if said opinion happens to be that he's a nuisance or that I'd have to have better things to do with my time than look after him, then, he's wrong and... I want him to know it. “We know where Salter is and, even if he did know that you were here and was stupid enough to come for you, we'd never let him get you. Will, you're safe here and that bastard's never going to get to touch you, let alone see you, again. So... It's okay. Everything, it.. It's okay.”

“It's... silly,” Will replies in a quiet, vaguely breathless voice. “I... I'm being silly.”

“You're not being silly,” I correct, shifting a little closer to Will and wafting my hand a couple of inches above his slumped shoulder. “Seeing Salter would have come as a shock and...”

“It's silly,” he repeats, closing his eyes as a visible tremor of emotion works its way through his body and causes him to tighten his hold on his shins. “I dreamt of that time he... When he...”

“Will... Come on, it's okay. You don't have to...”

“Only this time, I... I wasn't blindfolded and I could see... I could see his face as... as he...”

“Hey... Come on...” My willpower failing, I rest my hand on Will's shoulder. “It's...”

“It shouldn't make any difference,” Will continues as he breathes deeply in an attempt to calm himself down, “but... But it does. It feels the same, but... seeing his expression, the... look of absolute hatred on his face, and... and knowing what's coming, what he's going to do to me next, I.. It... It was like I was back there again. I know it was only a nightmare, but...”

“It felt real,” I finish, sliding my hand a little way down his back and beginning to rub gentle circles in to his tense, bunched up muscles. “It's okay, Will, I... in my admittedly limited way... I understand, but... He's not here and he's never going to hurt you again. It happened, and I can't, regardless of how much I wish that I could, do anything to change that, but it's over and you can't allow the bastard to have any control over you, because... He hasn't. He hasn't got any control over you, Will, and...”

“He asked me out,” he abruptly states as, opening his eyes, he swivels his head around so that although he's still not actually looking at me he is at least facing me. “Salter, he... I'd forgotten about it until now, but he once asked me out...”

“He... did?” I know it's an uninspired response but, really, as this wasn't something I ever expected to hear, I just don't know what else to say.

“He did...” Sighing, Will closes his eyes again and rests his cheek back down on his knees. “It was months before... uh... I disappeared and I didn't really think anything of it. He asked me out for a drink and, although I wasn't interested, I would have gone just to be polite, but I... I was busy writing up an important report for an active mission and just didn't have the time. I explained this to him, and muttered something about perhaps making it for another time, but... I'm thinking now that he must have taken it personally.”

So personally that he singled Will out for... special treatment... because he wanted to get revenge for... having his advances knocked back? That... everything Salter did to Will, from faking his death to raping him, was simply because he hadn't been able to go out for a drink with him?

I'd love to say that it sounds far-fetched, that there's no way Salter could have reacted that way, but, not having come down in the last shower, it just sounds sadly far too believable. Knowing that it was probably only a matter of time before Will's research found its way in his direction, he could have just had him killed and gone on his merry way. But, no. He kept him alive and, after helping himself to his own taste, sold him into a life of degradation and abuse.

Offensively, it makes sense. I wish that it didn't, but it does.

And Will knows it, too. He knows that it was personal.

“I'm sorry,” I whisper, gliding my hand up Will's back and closing it around his shoulder. “You can't blame yourself though. I mean, you weren't to know that he'd...”

“React... quite the way that he did?” Will interjects wryly as, opening his eyes, he sits up straighter and loosens his hold on his legs. “And the moral of this sad and tragic story, Ethan, is that... If you're asked out, always say yes. Attraction or... having the time, doesn't have to come into it because, if you don't, they'll just bide their time before getting their own back on you in ways that you never even would have been able to imagine...”

“Oh, I don't know if it has to be a blanket rule,” I reply in a somewhat facetious tone as, not wanting to stay on this topic of conversation for fear of – how bad it might get – where it might lead us, I make a token bid to lighten the mood. “I mean... Rest assured that I wouldn't seek my revenge on you if you didn't want to go out with me. Sure, I might sulk a little and possibly even drop you from my Christmas card list, but I wouldn't hold a grudge.”

“Maybe... But, like you'd want to go out with me anyway,” Will mutters softly as he looks briefly into my eyes before, with a small shrug, dropping his gaze. “You or... anyone, really. So... As rules go, it's probably not one that's ever actually going to come up.”

“Ah... But that's where you'd be wrong,” I comment, cutting him off as I hide my own... discomfort... at what I know Will's getting at here behind a bright smile. Without coming right out and saying so in as many words, he views himself as used – and abused – goods and, because of this, already thinks that no-one will ever want him again and, while I get it, I also hate it. He's still young, what happened to him isn't something that anyone should ever be able to hold against him, and he can't just give up and let it control his life. I know it's easy for me to say, but he can't. He's not only better than that, but he also... deserves... better than that and, somehow, I've just got to get this through to him. “If you think about it for a minute, I've already asked you out.”

Frowning, I suspect, as much in concentration as in confusion, Will glances at me through hopeful eyes and murmurs, “Sorry? I... I don't...”

“Taking the Eurostar to Brussels,” I reply, increasing the wattage of my smile as I mentally cross my fingers that I'm both on to something here and have actually managed to capture Will's attention. “There's no reason that couldn't be considered as a date... of sorts.”

“I... But... I thought you only meant that as... a joke,” he whispers, giving me an openly curious look.

“I'll admit that it started off that way, but... as it went on and you seemed willing to go along with it, I decided that it sounded like a pretty good idea, actually, and...” Pausing, I look into Will's very blue eyes as he gazes at me and shrug airily. “Hey... I'm up for it if you are. I don't know when we'll get the time, but if you'd one day like to take the train from London to Brussels with me, then... I'd be delighted to have your company.”

“But...” Lowering his head, Will rubs the palms of his hands against his knees and sighs. “Why? I... I can't offer you...”

“You don't have to offer my anything. I happen to like you and consider you to be a friend and, if I have to go under that damn Channel in a train again, I can't think of anyone I'd more like to have by my side. Will... You're my equal, okay, and you're never to think anything different.”

“But...”

“You're IMF, and you're brilliant. Take the fact we've been able to identify Salter, for example. It was your plan that made it happen and I'm still in awe of it.”

“But, I... I'm... Nothing. I'm nothing and...”

“No. You're not,” I declare, shifting even closer to Will and placing my free hand on his other shoulder as, tensing, he turns his head away from me. “You're not what that bastard tried to turn you in to and... you're as worthy of respect as I am. Now... If you don't want to go on the train with me then, hey, it's totally your call and I'll survive. If, however, your reason for not wanting to join me is because you think you're beneath me or I'm just humouring you like you're some sort of community service that I'm being made to do, then... Don't. Opinions, respect, the right to both do as you want and speak your mind, you... You're entitled to all of that and more, Will, and I know you've been through hell and that it's hard, but you've just got to believe me.”

“It's just...” Stopping himself from continuing, Will gives me a shy look and slowly nods. “Thank you,” he murmurs with a faint smile. “Like you, I don't know when, or even... if, we'll ever be able to fit it in, but... If it can happen, I... I really would like to go to Brussels with you...”

“Then consider it a date,” I retort, grinning as, suddenly realising just how close I've crept to him and that I'm all but gripping him by the shoulders, I lean back and start to move my hands away. “Uh... Sorry. I...”

“Don't,” Will whispers, jerking his head up and looking me directly in the eye for a couple of seconds before blushing and, almost as though he'd just remembered that he doesn't think he has the right to speak up, lowering his gaze. “Sorry... I... Forget it. It... It doesn't matter.”

“Everything I've just said, all that stuff about being equals and you being worthy of an opinion and all that, it wasn't just to hear the sound of my own voice, you know,” I respond, leaving my hands hovering an inch or two above Will's shoulders as I wait for him to make up his mind in regards to just what it is he does next. “If you want something, Will, then just say it. I'm here because I want to be, you're not bothering me or putting me out, and if there's anything you think you might want from me then the odds are pretty heavily stacked in your favour of me agreeing to it. So...”

“It doesn't matter,” Will repeats dejectedly. “I just... Forget it, please. I shouldn't have said anything.”

“But you did, and, because I want you to know that you can say anything to me, I want you to follow through with it.”

“It doesn't...”

“It does. It does matter.”

“I... It's okay, Ethan. Please. Just forget it and go back to bed. I don't want to...”

“I'm not going anywhere until you finish what you'd been wanting to say. So... Don't... Don't, what?”

Sighing, Will shoots me a beseeching look. “Don't... leave. Don't... stop touching me,” he mumbles. “Just... Take your pick. When I thought that you were leaving I reacted without thinking and I... I'm sorry. I don't have the right to...”

“You'd like me to stay, then?” I interrupt, dropping my hands back down on to Will's shoulders and giving them a gentle squeeze.

“It... It doesn't matter what I...”

“A simple yes or no answer is all that's required here. If you'd like me to stay, and, if it helps, I'm happy to stay for as long as you'd like me to, then all you have to do is say the word.”

“You need to get some sleep,” Will protests as, clearly feeling as though he's put himself on the spot, he shakes his head and pushes himself further back against the headboard. “I shouldn't have...”

“Yes or no,” I repeat, tightening my hold on him as, hoping my patience holds out, I smile reassuringly. “Don't think, just... speak your mind.”

“I...”

“A one word answer, Will, that's all I need here.”

“I...” Taking a deep breath, Will nods and slides his legs flat along the mattress. “Yes...”

“And that's what I was hoping you'd say,” I murmur, beaming at Will as, looking more anxious by the second, he gazes at me through wide eyes and bites down on his bottom lip. “So, how do you want to do this?” I continue, pushing on in the face of Will's anxiety and, as always, just hoping for the best. Whether he's regretting it or not, he made the first move here and I want him to be the one to see it through. “Do you want to try to go back to sleep while I just stay in the room with you, or...”

“What I'd like,” Will replies quietly, “is for you to... hold me...”

Unsure as to whether I heard him right, I cock my head to the side and, because I'd hate to make the wrong move here, hesitantly murmur, “Will? Are you...”

“Forget it,” he mumbles, shrugging off my hands and squirming away from me. “Again, I never should have said anything and I'm sorry for having... uh... spoken out of turn or overstepped my boundaries. It... It won't happen again.”

Great. So I... did... hear him correctly and now, despite thinking that I was doing the right thing, I've gone and, with complete insensitivity, hurt his feelings.

And... Yes. I feel awful about it.

What's that again about the road to hell being paved with good intentions?

Standing up, I turn a blind eye to the fact that I'm only wearing – having, after all, been in bed myself before all of this started – black cotton boxers and a khaki coloured t-shirt and, hoping that I'm not too late, reach down to the foot of the bed and pull the bedding up over Will's legs. I then, as he watches me with an unreadable expression on his face, look down at him and, as an odd sensation of nerves causes my heart to beat faster, gesture at the other side of the mattress. “For this to work,” I murmur, “you're going to have to scoot over and make room.”

“But... I...”

“If you're okay with my outfit, and, don't worry, I'm fine with staying above the covers, then...”

“You're not naked, and you're not wearing leather,” Will mutters, shuffling across to the other side of the bed and patting the mattress next to him, “so, trust me, you're fine. But... You... You don't have to do...”

“I want to,” I state simply as, busying myself with the task at hand, I smooth the bedding over Will before pushing the pillows up against the bedhead and, as he continues to watch all of this with obvious interest, climbing onto the bed. “Whatever your reasons are for wanting this, I... want to be there for you, and... it's okay,” I continue, stretching my legs out on top of the bedding and making myself comfortable against the pillows. “So... Come on. If this is still what you want...”

“It...” Shrugging his acceptance as a half-smile ghosts over his lips, Will shifts closers and arranges himself around me in a way that makes putting my arm around his shoulders and pulling him even closer second nature. All things considered, it's an odd position – for both of us – to be in and, as Will rests his head on my chest and drapes his arm loosely around my waist, I wait for things to start to become a little awkward. It doesn't matter that he was the one to voice the request, or... make the first move, if you like, as...

It shouldn't feel this... right.

I've never been renowned for my people skills, Will's vulnerable and still in need of more help than I'll ever feel capable of offering him, but, somehow, it's just... not awkward. It's not awkward at all. Will's pressed tightly against me and, in a move that reminds me of a cat kneading a blanket, stroking the tips of his fingers against the soft cotton of my t-shirt because he wants to be, and, for my part, I'm – loving it – just as content as I am comfortable. It's an unusual situation to be in, and I can't quite decide whether I'd like to know what's going through Will's head at the moment or whether ignorance, as the saying goes, really is bliss.

He did initiate it, though.

And that counts for a lot.

“Thank you,” Will murmurs. “I know you're probably thinking that I'm mad, but... Thank you.”

“There's nothing to thank me for,” I reply with a truly astounding lack of originality as I glance down at the top of Will's head. “This... It's not exactly a hardship for me, you know.”

“Not just... this,” Will replies, resting his hand flat on my waist. “For... everything. For putting up with me, for... never making me feel any worse about things, for not... looking at me as though I disgust you, for... Just... Thank you for... salvaging... what, up until now, had been a fairly crappy day. I know I'm being... needy, and that I just need to suck it up, but...”

“Given what you've been through, you don't need to... suck... anything up,” I interject, “just as you don't need to thank me for anything. But... What's this about you having had a bad day though? Is it your back? I've still got that ointment somewhere, so if you need me to...”

“My back's... fine.”

“Your head, then? Are you still getting the headaches?”

“If I'm awake, I have a headache,” he responds matter-of-factly. “Don't worry though, not exactly feeling any great urge to be a martyr, if it gets too bad I take a couple of painkillers, and... I'm okay. I also shouldn't have said anything, and...”

“You can talk to me, you know,” I reply, not wanting to push Will, who I'm half-hoping is just wanting to go to sleep, but, at the same time, wanting to know just why it is he's had a bad day. Again, I know the whole Salter revelation would have been a shock but, and it's not as though I can even put my finger on why I'm feeling this way, I can't help but suspect that there's a bit more to it. “You don't have to, of course, but I am here for you. I'm no counsellor, and there's probably a reasonable chance I won't be able to do anything...”

“You're already doing it, actually. Just by putting up with me you're doing more than I think you know you are.”

“Hmm... Again I think we're probably going to have to agree to differ, but... If you're honestly okay with me then I'm glad.”

“I'm... more than okay with you...”

“Then I'm more than glad...”

“Smart ass,” Will mutters with what sounds like a muffled snort of laughter. “See? You're doing it again.”

“Doing what?” I query, genuinely curious as to what exactly it is he thinks I'm doing as I rub my hand along his upper arm.

“Talking to me like I'm... normal...”

“That's because you are normal,” I reply, cupping my free hand under Will's chin and gently applying just enough pressure on it so that he has little choice but to look up at me. “Listen to me, Will. You're as normal as anyone could hope to be given what you've been through and, seriously, I really do think that you're doing just fine.”

“Was,” Will corrects, pulling free of my hand and, with a sigh, resting his head back down on my chest. “Maybe I... was... doing fine,” he continues softly, “but... I'm not now. Today... Today's just brought me undone and I... I'm sorry. I don't want to let anyone down, and I... I'd hoped to hide it, but... it looks as though I can't even do...”

“You're not letting anyone down,” I murmur as, without really think about what I'm doing, I plant a quick kiss on the top of his head and hug him even closer to me, “and you don't have to apologise for anything. If you've had a bad day, then... you've had a bad day. So... It's okay and I want you to know that, if you want to, you can talk to me about it. You don't have to... just soldier on. Hell, it's not as though anyone even expects you to and you never have to apologise for how you're feeling. Seeing Salter, that must have come as a massive shock to you and...”

“Seeing him, having Benji actually recognise him even though I couldn't or... didn't want to, realising that it was personal, that I was... singled out for this treatment, remembering what he did to me, the... oh God... the feel of his hands and the sound of his voice, knowing that he... that he'd come for me and was only a few miles away,” Will replies in a quiet, faltering monotone as, closing his eyes, he goes back to stroking his fingers against my t-shirt. “It... I know it's stupid, that... it's history and that I'm safe, that... even if he did come I'd hopefully have it in me to fight this time, but it... it just got to me, and... I'm sorry. You don't need this and...”

“Neither do you,” I state, tilting my head back so that Will, should he either open his eyes or look up at me, can't see the pained expression I just know has to be plastered all over my face. Damn that bastard, Salter. Seriously. Just damn the fucker to hell and back. The fact that this happened to Will was already bad enough without him now having to work through the knowledge that it was actually personal, that he wasn't targeted for his research into the leak at all. There's wanting to get revenge, and then there's cruelty just for the sake of wanting to make someone suffer, and then, out there in a league of its own, there's what Salter did to Will. He could have just let the air out of his tyres or spread a spot of malicious gossip about him. That, let's face it, would have been enough for most people. But, no. He had to go all out and do this to him. Capture him. Fake his death. Reduce him to a life of sadistic sexual slavery.

I've met some complete assholes in my time, but Salter, he takes the proverbial cake.

And, when I bring him in and share with him the glorious fact of life that, thanks to him thinking with his cock, I'm now not going to rest until I've had IMF tear through the section of the Bratva he's been working for until there's nothing left and the elders too are braying for his head on a stick, I'm going to both smile and laugh like a fucking hyaena. Ignoring the string of unbelievable luck that started with Khavin taking me to La Fée Noir that set all of this in motion, it's entirely down to Salter's – unhealthy – interest in Will that's going to result in his downfall and I never want him to forget it. His infiltration of IMF had been faultless until now and there was no reason that it couldn't have continued for years to come and, if he hadn't fixated on Will, it probably would have.

It's a silver lining with far too high a cost for Will, but... it's still a silver lining.

“Will, I... I know I probably sound like I'm forever repeating myself, but it's okay,” I continue, dragging my thoughts away from the festering hatred I feel for Salter and doing my best to concentrate on the much more important task of trying to offer at least some small degree of comfort to Will. “Salter's never going to get anywhere near you again, and I understand, I do, that what you're going through... sucks. It sucks big time and I wish there was more that I could do for you.”

“You've already done more than enough for me,” Will whispers. “I... couldn't ask any more of you and, please, don't ever think that anything you've done has been wrong, as... it hasn't. Even now the thought of being just dumped in a hospital and being surrounded by psychiatrists and the like revolts me, and I... I'm so grateful to you that I don't think I'll ever be able to find the right words to express this, let alone ever be able to pay you back.”

“You don't ever have to pay me back for... anything,” I reply, looking back down at Will and noticing that he's opened his eyes and is now gazing at his hand as it continues to stroke my t-shirt. “I just did what I felt I had to do and... hoped for the best. If it's worked, and, for what it's worth, I actually think you've done marvellously all on your own, then... I'm glad. I'm glad that you're... getting there... and, before you say anything, I don't think the fact that you've had a bit of bad day today is much of a hiccup at all. I look at Salter and see... success, but I know that you'd see something else entirely and I can understand why the bastard's... upset... you.”

“Not...” Sighing, Will pulls away from me and, dislodging my arm from around his shoulders in the process, sits up. “I... I probably shouldn't be saying this, but... It wasn't just Salter that managed to... get to me... today,” he murmurs, returning to his earlier position of hugging his knees to his chest.

Remembering my own display of petulant, jealous behaviour from late this afternoon when I holed myself up in the bedroom and sulked, I hesitantly place my hand on Will's arm and hope like mad that he's not about to add my name to the list of people who managed to upset his day. I'm not saying that I wouldn't deserve it, and even if he doesn't mention my disappearing act I'd still do my day over if I could because, in hindsight, I know now that it was far from being one my wiser – or best – moves, but... Shit. Deserved or not, I still don't want to hear it. “Will? If I gave the impression of hiding this afternoon, I...”

“Hiding?” he interrupts, frowning. “I don't...” Trailing off, he rests his chin on his knees. “It wasn't you, it was Benji...”

“Benji?” I exclaim perhaps a little too loudly, as too intent on finding fault with my own actions and mentally berating myself, I hadn't even paused to think about the other member of our odd household. “But...” The mere thought of Benji managing to upset anyone being one that I'm having some difficulty getting my head around, I stare at Will and, for no real reason other than it's something to do, shake my head. “But I thought you... liked... Benji. If you didn't you should have said something before I got him over here to...”

“I do like Benji,” Will replies as, his eyes widening, he pushes himself into a more upright position and gives me an anxious look. “I... Shit! I knew I never should have said anything,” he continues hurriedly. “Ethan, please... Promise me that you won't mention any of this to Benji. He... He wasn't to know and it's not his fault that I've been going around with my head buried in the sand.”

“Wasn't to know... what?”

“Just... Promise me.”

“If he's hurt you...”

“He hasn't hurt me. I'm just... over-reacting, that's all.”

“But...”

“Promise me.”

“I'm sure he'd want to know if he's said something wrong.”

“That's just it, he hasn't said anything wrong.”

“But...”

“Promise me, please,” Will implores as he fixes me with what can only be described a a pleading look. “I don't want any of this to get back to Benji.”

Accepting that Will's terms here are basically non-negotiable and that I'm never going to find out what it was Benji did to accidentally upset him if I don't go along with them, I shrug and sit up straighter so that I can better face him. “Fine. I promise. You have my word that I'll never mention any of this to Benji.”

“Good.” Nodding, Will leans back against his pillows and slides his legs along the mattress. “Again, it's stupid of me, and I can't reiterate enough how none of it is Benji's fault, but... You know Benji. He likes to chatter. It's just how he is and I know, as I doubt he has a mean bone in his body, that it would have been entirely unintentional, that... he probably expected me to either know it all already or thought of it for myself, but... I... The things he was letting slip this afternoon, I... didn't know, and... while, yes, I should have already thought of them, I... I hadn't, and...”

“And they've upset your... delicate equilibrium... just as much as identifying Salter has?” I offer.

“Delicate equilibrium,” Will mutters, scowling down at this lap. “That's a good way of putting it, actually. But... Yes. Stupidly, pathetically, and... embarrassingly, everything he said was... news... to me and... I don't know what's getting to me more, the facts themselves, or the... fact... that I hadn't even thought of them.”

“I take it that you're going to tell me what these... facts... are?” I prompt as I settle myself back against the pillows and return my arm to Will's shoulders. “They must be pretty... eye-opening to...”

“They're not eye-opening at all,” Will sighs as, inching closer, he relaxes against me and, with only a brief moment of hesitation, places his hand on my bare thigh. “Well, that is, to anyone other than me they're not eye-opening. They're just... Logic. Common sense, even. To me, though... I...” Pausing as his breath catches in his throat, Will shrugs and, looking up, pins me with a sad look. “For all intents and purposes, I'm... dead,” he whispers. “My name's on the memorial wall, the body of... God knows who... is buried under a tombstone with my name on it, my assets are frozen, my belongings are in storage, and my lease has been paid out. I... I have nothing. I am... nothing. I'm not saying that I'm emotionally attached to my belongings or even care where I end up living, but I... I just hadn't even thought about it. Hadn't thought about... what's going to become of me.”

“Oh.” It not really being something I'd thought of before either, I look at Will and frown. “And this is what Benji inadvertently let slip, yeah... That, when you return to D.C., nothing is going to be the same as when you last left it...”

“He was just wanting to reassure me that he'd been involved in emptying my apartment and that everything had been securely packed away,” Will replies. “He... Needless to say he didn't mean anything by it and that's why I don't want him to know that I've taken his... act of kindness... and had a stupid, irrational melt down over it. It's not my stuff, or even the wall or tombstone, it's more that I... I just don't know what's going to become of me, what I'm going to do with myself...”

“You'll be put up in temporary accommodation while your accounts and belongings are... resurrected, and... that'll just be that,” I murmur, hoping that the simplicity of my response does the job and doesn't just strike Will as either... too... simple, or possible even slightly condescending. “It's okay. You're not going to be abandoned and we'll all do what we can to make your... transition... back to your old life as smooth as possible. So... I get that, just like seeing Salter did, hearing Benji mention these things must have come as a shock, but...”

“He also mentioned that it's August,” Will interrupts, looking away as he uses his free hand to wearily rub the side of his face. “That I... That I'd missed a birthday...”

“Oh...”

“I don't care about my age, or... even have a particular fondness for my birthday, but I... I didn't even know and... and when I think about what I could have been doing on my actual birthday, it...”

“It just eats at you?”

“Everything... Today, everything is just eating at me. I should be... happy. It's over, I know that I'm safe and that it won't be long now until we've got Salter in custody, but, today's just been... bad. Apart from my head, nothing hurts, I'm pleased to have Benji... his penchant for innocently prattling on notwithstanding... here, I don't feel threatened, and... you're still treating me as though I'm normal when, clearly, I'm not, but I... I still feel like a freak, like... it's never going to get any better.”

“You're not a freak, and of course it's going to...”

“I am a freak,” Will interjects in small voice. “To most of IMF I've always been a freak and now... Now I'm just going to be an even bigger one.”

“You're not a freak,” I repeat firmly as I lean forward and cup my right hand around his cheek. “Come on, Will. You're not...”

“I am,” he mutters. “Surely Benji or Jane have already told you how I'm barely accepted by analysts or agents alike because they think... I... think I'm better than them because I play both sides. It's not like that at all, of course it's not, but... no matter what I do I can't seem to get it through to them that the only reason I do it is because... I can. I... I don't even have a preference and just go where I'm told. For some reason this just seems to offend people though and...” Sighing, he suddenly shifts free and, with a sigh, settles himself on his side so that he's got his back to me and his face half-hidden by the bedding. “And now they're really going to think that I'm useless,” he murmurs into the pillow, “that... none of this would have happened if I'd just stuck to one job, that... by thinking I could do both I... I really couldn't do either and I'm... just the liability that they've always thought me to be...”

Choking back my own sigh, I slide down the mattress and, draping my arm over his waist, press myself up against Will's back. “You're far from useless or a liability,” I reply, struggling to keep the unbelievable annoyance I'm currently feeling for my fellow IMF agents out of my voice as, to my relief, Will instinctively pushes back against me. “Being... envious of your abilities and behaving like assholes because of it doesn't mean that they think you're a freak. I know it doesn't excuse their behaviour, but, think about it... They're just jealous. If they're lucky they can do one job well, but you, you can do two and they're just envious. I mean, I know I could never do the job of an analyst and, speaking for myself here, I really do just happen to think you're brilliant because you can not only do that, but you can also go out there and do what I do as well, and...” Sighing, I hug Will to me and, in a whisper, add, “Did you hear that? I think you're brilliant. You're not a freak and... if, that really is how the peanut gallery lurking around IMF see you, then... It's their loss and... they're not worth either knowing or worrying about...”

“But... They'll look at me now and see...”

“A survivor. They'll look at you and see a survivor.”

“No they won't. They'll look at me and wish that Salter had done a better job of finishing me off.”

“And, I'm telling you now, if I catch anyone so much as looking at you sideways they're going to have me to answer to,” I retort, hating hearing the obvious pain in Will's voice as much I'm hating the fact he even has to feel this way. I may be in the minority and, okay, there may even have been a time when I was a young agent that I might have harboured suspicions over someone who was as respected in the field as they were behind a computer, but, for fuck's sake people, get a fucking life. I wasn't joking when I said that I couldn't do the job of an analyst and I also can't help but think that IMF would actually benefit from having more skilled people like Will in their ranks. 

“Listen to me, Will,” I continue. “Just... Don't worry about them as, seriously, they're just not worth it. You put up with their... pettiness... before and, trust me, you'll be able to put up with it again. You... You're still... you. Benji's still your friend, Jane's still your friend, and... now I'm your friend as well, and... we're not going anywhere. So... Please. Put them out of your mind and don't worry about them.”

“I don't want to be a...”

“You're not a nuisance to anyone and I know that I speak for the others here as well when I say that we offer our time to you freely. Benji and Jane, they were both able to see through the stupid prejudice and were your friends before all of this happened, and... Hey. They're still here for you. So... Just focus on what you had before and...”

“I... I didn't have you before,” Will quietly interjects as he pulls his arm out from under the bedding and rests his hand warmly over mine. “Sorry... That sounded... needy... of me and I apologise. You've already done more than enough for me and I don't expect you to...”

“You've got me now, and, as I don't have any plans to be going anywhere, I'll be around for as long as you want me to be,” I respond as, with somewhat perfect timing, Will yawns broadly. “Now... Shhh... How about just trying to get some sleep, yeah? One way or another we've got a big day ahead of us and you need to get some rest...”

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	13. Chapter 13

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Swallowing the mouthful of cold – and quite frankly revolting – coffee, I place my cup back down on the table and scan the crowded cafeteria for my next victim. Spotting him, a middle age man with a bad comb-over and who, given that he's doing such an awful job of attempting to be surreptitious as he stares over at me, I really hope is from the finance department or somewhere – internal – like that, I gaze back at him and, once our eyes meet, both smile balefully and give him a small wave of acknowledgement. This, of course, just as it did the last six voyeuristic sticky-beaks I happened to put under the spotlight like this, doesn't sit particularly well with him and, blushing a decidedly unbecoming fire-engine red colour, he stumbles to his feet and, all the time looking anywhere but back over at me, scurries from the cafeteria, his freshly purchased lunch and newspaper abandoned on the table.

Sadly, upsetting the day of an anonymous man that I don't recall ever having seen before and who, hopefully, I won't ever have to see again, doesn't improve my mood any but nor, and this almost a positive in itself, does it cause it to worsen even further.

It doesn't help, but I know why he was staring at me. Just like both all of the others before him and the ones that are still being brave enough to do it now, he was staring at me because, having really done it this time, I'm yet again a... cause célèbre... amongst the masses that populate IMF.

'Oh My God. There he is. I can't believe they let him out.'

'Thinks he's a law onto himself. They've got to do something about him, they really do.'

'What the fuck was he thinking, huh? Maybe he's losing his nerve.'

'I don't know how he can just be so brazenly sitting there.'

'MI6? That should be cause for instant dismissal right there.'

'All because of Brandt? Seriously. I don't even know why he bothered. It's not like anyone missed him.'

They don't know it, but as they sit here in the cafeteria passing both comment and judgement on me, I can either hear their not exactly whispered commentary or read it on their lips. They stare because they can hardly believe their eyes, and they busy themselves offering up opinions on something they wouldn't have a fucking clue about because...

… That's just IMF all over.

A pack of assholes who are as stuck in their ways as they are small minded.

'How dare he...' 'What was he thinking...' 'If it had been me I never would have handed them over to fucking Six...' 'Shouldn't have been out there on his own anyway...' 'Lone wolf syndrome, it's gone to his head...' 'Maybe he's looking for a job with Six...'

Still holding firm to the belief that I made the right call, they're all – and I'm talking here about the suited morons who just happen to be in charge all the way down to the morons muttering amongst themselves and staring at me in the cafeteria – very much mistaken if they think I care either way about what it is they're currently thinking of me. In fact, I just don't give a fuck. Things may not have gone how I'd originally planned them to go, but, whatever... At the end of the day the result was a good one and, again, I'm not going to lose any sleep over whether a group of people who weren't even involved in what was going on don't happen to agree with how I went about it.

Salter's dead.

Five members, including one of their most deadly and wanted assassins, of the Bratva are in the custody of MI6, or, as they prefer – in an attempt to distance themselves from the literary creation of James Bond – to be known, the Secret Intelligence Service.

Benji, Will and myself are back in D.C..

And... It's over.

Again, not how I'd planned it to be, but it's still over and I don't have any regrets about any of it. 

I've even made my peace with the fact that I wasn't the one who got to rid the world of Salter, and that, having come to the conclusion that he was no longer useful and was, in fact, a liability, the Bratva took him out themselves. While there's no denying that I would have derived a certain sense of satisfaction from pulling the trigger myself, seeing him in the warehouse, lying lifeless in the pool of blood from the gaping wound in his throat, was, at the end of the day, good enough for me. He was, after all, dead, and ultimately that's all that had to matter. 

It's just...

Will's safe, the mole's been removed from IMF, the Bratva have been hit where it hurts, and...

I feel as though I'm right back where I started.

Disgruntled with IMF. Disconnected. Alone. Questioning, not my loyalty or my desire to do the job, but... whether it's even what I still want to do.

I don't do what I do for praise or even recognition. I do it because I feel it is what's right and because, regardless of what the cost, physical, personal or otherwise, might be, I feel that it's worth it. Rewards don't mean any more to me than being the Secretary's pet, 'go-to' agent does, and I'd be perfectly happy to be just left in peace to do my job. 

My job, which is to protect those that need protecting while, at the same time, looking after the best interests of IMF.

My job, which I did to the best of my abilities in both Paris and Ashford. I rescued an IMF agent, hunted down a mole, and, when I thought it was all getting out of hand and we were looking at causing one hell of a fuss on foreign soil, I protected the agency by bringing in the local authorities to take over and clean up the mess.

I didn't undermine the agency, or bring it into disrespect. Nor were any of my actions guided by my own motives. Everything that I did, I did so because I thought that it was right. For Will, for the safety of the local residents of Ashford, for IMF, for MI6... Every decision I made was in the name of the bigger picture or ultimate goal.

Just... Fuck them.

If I had to do it all over again I wouldn't change any of it. 

And, if the upper echelon, sitting in their ivory tower and swanning around in private jets from one conference to another, don't like it then, seriously, that's just too fucking bad.

Recognition, I can live without, but respect? Seriously. A bit of respect wouldn't go astray.

From the very moment, Adrian Baker, hot on the heels of the MI6 agents – and proof, not that I needed it, that the London field office monitors the other, local agencies even though we've signed an officially sanctioned document to say that we don't – arrived in Ashford, I've been treated as though, somehow, I'm personally behind everything that's happened. From Will's disappearance, to the fact that a mole had been able to get away with so much for so long, to handing the Bratva over to Six on a platter... 

Apparently I did it all.

Benefit of the doubt, my ass.

Baker, who's only in charge of the London office because he's such an officious, unpleasant prick that no one in D.C. wants to work with him on an extended basis, started barking questions at me from the second he arrived in Ashford and, on the off chance that wasn't offensive enough, I've just – from the second I was dragged away from Will on the tarmac – endured thirteen straight hours of being interrogated by internal fucking affairs.

Interrogated.

By the very agency I've devoted my working life to.

No... 'thank you' for discovering both Will and the mole, just hours of suspicion and never ending questions. I understand the need for clarification, and if they'd requested that I sit down and don't move until I'd both written up my detailed report and handed it in, I would have done so willingly. From how I found Will, to why I decided to go off the grid with him, to how we identified Salter and just why it was I chose to gift the Bratva to MI6 – there was a lot to cover and I get why they would have been so desperate to get their hands on the full story. It's not, however, as though I ever had any intention of hiding anything from them. Understanding the importance, not to mention the ramifications, of everything we'd just been through, I'd never so much as... contemplated... keeping anything from them. They had a right to know, it was my duty to keep them informed, and...

Damn it. They didn't have to treat me like either a common fucking criminal or, worse, like I was the enemy.

They could have questioned me, they could have even demanded that I write up the report then and there, but what they... didn't... have to do was drag me – and I suspect, which just pushes my buttons even more, Benji as well, given his involvement and the fact they probably hold me personally responsible for corrupting him – off and slap me in a Goddamn cell.

I did my job. That's all. I played the cards I had at my disposal and the outcome, contrary to the opinion of some, was the right one.

“Ain't anyone ever told you that it's not polite to hog the limelight?” a familiar voice announces from behind me as a hand lands heavily on my shoulder and, no doubt awestruck by the fact that someone's got the balls to be seen with me, even more eyes turn in my direction.

“Fuck you, Luther,” I retort, leaning back to look up at my friend as, smirking, he takes a seat in the chair next to mine. “Hey, I'd be careful if I were you. Being seen with me... It might effect your street cred.”

“Fuck my street cred,” Luther intones, swivelling around and calmly flipping the bird to anyone who's still watching us. “Like I give a fuck what those cretins think.”

“Just don't say that I didn't warn you,” I reply, flashing him a grateful smile as it dawns on me that, despite only putting myself through the 'point, stare, and bitch about' routine in the cafeteria because I'm hoping it's where Benji and Jane will think of looking for me, I am actually pleased to see Luther. “Look at 'em. They're probably all putting a black mark next to your name as I speak.”

“And again I say... Fuck 'em,” he replies, narrowing his eyes and shooting a death glare at someone behind me. “I'd rather be here with you and hearing it straight then trying to wade through the bullshit gossip that's currently flooding the place anyway.”

I shrug and scowl down at my perfectly unappealing cup of slowly going cold coffee. “Someone's gotta give them something to talk about.”

“And, trust me, you're currently that someone.”

“I aim to please.”

“Yeah? Not too sure that's how the PTB are viewing you at the moment.”

“Fuck the PTB,” I mutter. “Just... Don't. I don't want to talk about them.”

“You still disavowed?” Luther queries, picking up my cup and pulling a face as he peers down at it.

I shake my head and, solely because I don't want it spat all over me if he foolishly decides to take a mouthful of coffee, take the cup away from Luther. “Believe it or not, no. After chewing me a new one for thirteen hours they had to... magnanimously... admit defeat and accept that, hey, they had no reason not to reinstate me as I hadn't actually done anything wrong.”

“So... Welcome back to the fold, Agent Hunt.”

“Bite me.”

“Charming.”

“What can I say, I'm in a... charming... mood.”

“Oh, believe me, I can see that.”

“They... They had no fucking right!” I exclaim, slamming the cup down on to the table. “I didn't do anything wrong and, hell yeah, I'm pissy with how they've gone about things.”

“Personally, I can't quite decide what I'm more impressed by,” Luther murmurs conversationally as he reaches out and gives my shoulder another forceful slap. “The... mole thing, the... Bratva thing, the... and, you know something, this one I really do like... handing it all off to Six thing, or... the whole bringing-Brandt-back-from-the-dead thing. Either way, Ethan, it sure was some going and, just as you're already thinking, if the PTB don't like how you went about things then they can go fuck themselves.”

“I tried to get that across to them but, you know, they didn't seem to take it all that well.”

“That's 'cos they've all got sticks jammed up their butts. That, and I doubt any one of them would be able to remember what it's actually like out in the field.”

“I tried to get that across to them, too...”

“No joy?”

“That's one way of putting it.”

“So... Wanna tell me about it?”

“Not really, no.”

“Please...”

“Luther...”

“Pretty please?”

“Fine!” Knowing that Luther's not going to let up, I shrug and, leaning back, fold my arms across my chest. “I found Will thanks solely to Khavin wanting an absinthe fix and, having my suspicious as to why someone might have faked his death, I didn't announce my discovery and disappeared with him in the hope of getting to the bottom of it. Then, once we identified Nick Salter, you know, that thick-necked instructor from the gym, and discovered his links to the Bratva, we'd been going to just bring him and... any hangers on... that may have rocked up to help him, in, when...” Pausing, I look at Luther and roll my eyes. “You know how it goes. Things quickly went pear shaped and I had to re-evaluate our odds of success.”

“More Bratva put in an appearance than you'd been counting on?” Luther prompts. “If Salter had fucked up over the whole Brandt situation then it only stands to reason that they wouldn't be giving him a second chance and would just want things fixed.”

“And that's pretty much exactly what happened,” I reply. “Although we knew Salter was holed up in a warehouse on the outskirts of town, we didn't have any audio and, wanting to rectify this, I went in to lay some bugs and... That's when I saw that things had gotten away from us. The Bratva hit squad were in place, Salter was already dead, and we couldn't do it. We just couldn't bring in five members of the Bratva on our own.”

“Our?”

“I had Benji with me.”

“Dunn? As in the tech guy?”

“Uh-huh. I had Benji with me, Jane Carter on intel, and, I suppose, running a little bit of interference, back here, and... Will. He, of course, was there as well.”

“So... A tech geek, and... a dead guy, that was your team...”

“Don't knock them,” I mutter, giving Luther a warning look. “The... dead guy... even though he wasn't up to it, would have done anything asked of him, and the same goes for Benji. And, if you must know, I'd still take the both of them over anyone... uh... present company excluded, of course... here in the cafeteria.”

“But... They weren't enough?” Dismissing my... one small step off puffing my chest up and beating it like King Kong... reaction with both a shrug and a bland smile, Luther leans forward and waits for me to go on. 

“They weren't enough,” I confirm. “Neither were physically fit enough and, at the risk of sounding as though I'm going soft, I wasn't prepared to put them through it.”

“So... Why didn't you just bolster your forces by calling Baker's team in?”

“Because I wanted the job done properly. Because I didn't want any fall back from GCHQ by fucking around with the Bratva on their soil, and, well, because I thought the resources of MI6 were best placed to take them down with as little effort as possible. Oh, and then there's the fact that I don't think it hurts to be in Six's good books occasionally, and...” Trailing off, I sigh and, unfolding my arms, lean forward. “Look, I also didn't want to risk any harm coming to Will, okay... The hit squad had, after all, come for him and, thinking that he'd already been through enough, I didn't want to put him in danger.”

“Will, huh?” Luther murmurs as, shrugging, he gives a knowing look.

“Yeah. Will,” I mutter, countering his look with a scowl. “What of it?”

“Nothing,” he replies, flashing me an innocent smile. “Brandt... Where did you find him, anyway?”

“You don't want to know.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Again... You really don't want to know.”

“And, even if I did, you're not going to tell me.”

“Now you're getting it.” 

“Oh well.” Realising that he's not going to get anywhere with this particular line of inquiry, Luther gives another small shrug. “At least he's still alive and, thanks to you, back where he belongs.”

“You know him?” I query, giving him a genuinely curious look.

He nods. “Yeah. I worked a mission with him once,” he replies, raising an eyebrow at my obvious interest. “He's...”

“Say... a freak,” I interrupt, narrowing my eyes, “and you're not going to like my reaction.”

“Gee, defensive, much?” Luther mutters. “If you must know, I'd been going to say... Okay. That Brandt's... okay. You know now that I've just got to ask... why... it was you felt so instantly compelled to jump down my throat like that, though, don't you?”

“Because... after thirteen hours spent down in the IMF dungeons being interrogated by a couple of smug bastards that I actually work with and weren't working... against, my... uh... usually impeccable people skills have taken a bit of a battering?” I offer with a lacklustre smile. “Sorry, Luther. It just... came out.”

“Must have... just come out... for a reason, though,” he retorts, giving me one of his patented 'and don't try to bullshit your way out of this' looks. “Come on, Ethan. What gives?”

“Sorry,” I repeat as, knowing that I effectively walked right into this one, I don't even bother trying to change the subject. “Between everything that Benji and Jane have said, not to mention Will himself, I've just been given the impression that that's how he's viewed.”

“As a freak?”

“Apparently.”

“You don't know him?” Luther queries, looking, for the first time since he's joined me, a little surprised.

I shake my head. “Nope. Believe it or not, the first I even knew of his existence was when the news broke of his death.”

“Oh. Epic observation skills, Ethan.”

“In my defence,” I mutter, “I'd be lucky if I knew the name of half of the people in the cafeteria at the moment.”

Turning around, Luther scans the cafeteria for a moment before shrugging and swivelling back to face me. “You're not missing out on much,” he retorts. “Brandt, though... Don't get me wrong, I'm not about to sit here and say that the sun shines out of his ass or anything like that, but, hey, he's definitely okay. Scary smart, doesn't rock the boat, pretty much... harmless, actually. But, yeah, I'd have no issues with working with him again.”

“Again though, I get the impression that by having that opinion you're somewhat in the minority.”

“So? I know he's okay, the Secretary respects him, your... Benji and Jane... obviously seem to like him, and I get the feeling you're in his court as well, so...” He gestures around the cafeteria. “Who cares what this lot think? You know that old... 'fear of the unknown'... saying, yeah? Well, with the majority of this lot it's more... Fear of those better and more talented than they are. And, while you may not have seen it for yourself yet, Brandt's better than all of them. He's just not... showy... about it like you are, and that obviously pisses the fucker's off.”

“Showy, huh?” I murmur drily. “Hey. Right now they're welcome to my pretty shitty life.”

“Nah... It'd still be too good for 'em.”

“Aw, Luther. You say the sweetest things.”

“Well, that's what I'm here for,” he smirks, sliding his hand across the table and poking his finger into my arm. “Back to Brandt. Screw what this lot think about him and just focus on what... you... think about him.”

“Oh, don't worry. I couldn't care less what they think of him. To be perfectly honest, I don't even care what... you... think and was just curious.”

“Now who's saying the sweetest things, huh?”

“Hey, I try.”

“You're... trying, more like,” Luther replies with a smug smile. “Brandt though, he's going to be okay, yeah?”

“Hopefully...” Wishing I could give Luther a more definite answer, I glance down at my offending cup of coffee and shrug. “What he went through, it... it's going to take a lot to completely come back from, but... He seemed to be doing okay and I have hope that, in time, he'll be able to put it behind him and be fine.”

“You don't sound too sure of that.”

“That'd be because I haven't seen him since we landed in D.C.,” I respond with a scowl. “Given how all of this seems to be the number one topic of conversation around here, I'm surprised you haven't heard about the... Gestapo... meet 'n' greet team that met us on the tarmac.”

“Private jet?”

“With the added bonus of Baker as our very own escort.”

“Some bonus.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Still a prick?”

“Oh yeah... Well and truly still a prick.” I'm not going to mention this, even though I know that he'd appreciate it, to Luther, but I very nearly had a stand up fight with Baker on the jet over being able to sit with Will. As far as Baker, who was taking his job of escort very seriously indeed, was concerned the reason I wanted to sit with Will was because I wanted to word him up on getting our... story... straight. Needless to say this, as the reason I wanted to be by his side was because he'd had yet another bad day and was looking both pale and worried, couldn't have been further from the truth and to have Baker up in my face and spouting crap at me was just like a red rag to a bull. If Benji hadn't both intervened and managed to convince him that all Will was going to do once he'd sat down was go to sleep when he did I honestly think I would have reached the point where I would have just hit him.

Even now, I kind of wish that I had.

“Was he behind the meet 'n' greet team?”

“Actually, given that they left him standing on the tarmac, I'm thinking not,” I mutter, snorting. “You should have seen it though, Luther. Three cars, all with their own driver and two agent escort team, to take the three of us to our separate locations. Overkill had nothing on it.”

“And that was the last time you saw Brandt?”

“Uh-huh. They carted him off, presumably to the infirmary, while Benji and I were taken in for... questioning.”

“If he was taken to the infirmary, then... Cheer up. He'd have to be fine.”

“Yeah. I'm sure,” I lie, hiding my unease at the thought of Will having to endure so much as a brief stint in hospital behind a bland smile. “Look. You're right, I'm sure he'll be just fine and I'm only in a sulk because of the bullshit way we've been treated. Just... We're here, Salter's dead, MI6 are all over the Bratva, and... hurrah... I've got my ever-so-fucking-precious job back. So... What's not to love about my life, huh?”

“Anyone ever tell you that you're just a sunbeam of light and happiness?” Luther mutters drolly as, looking relieved, he pushes his chair back and stands up. “Hey, as fun as this has been and, really, it... has... been fun, I can see two thirds of your new team heading your way and think it's time for me to take my leave.”

“My new team? What are you talking...” Trailing off, I glance over my shoulder and spot Jane and – a rather exhausted and bedraggled looking – Benji making their way across to my table and, with a shrug, gesture them over. “They're not my...”

“Yeah, yeah. You keep telling yourself that, Ethan,” Luther interrupts as, never one to miss an opportunity, he gives my shoulder another slap as he begins to walk off. “Again, it's been fun, and thanks for cutting through the bullshit gossip and giving it to me straight, but I'm out of here.”

“Been great talking to you, too,” I murmur as, swivelling around in my seat, I watch Luther for a few seconds before turning my attention to the others. Benji looking even worse up close than he did from a distance, I actually grimace as he takes a seat in the chair Luther had just vacated and, knowing that it's my fault he's been through the same interrogation routine that I have just adds to my festering annoyance.

“There you go, Benji,” Jane announces with a forced smile as, trailing her hand along his arm, she begins to walk over to the counter. “At least we were able to find one of them.”

“So much for thinking I was being smart and placing myself somewhere where I could easily be found,” I reply, frowning as, unable to help myself, I look Benji up and down. “No offence, but you look like I feel.”

“Like shit?” Benji offers with none of his usual... liveliness as, looking pleased to be sitting down, he slumps back in the chair and sighs. “Oh... And, no offence taken. I feel like shit too, like... all I want to do is crawl into bed and just stay there... Forever.”

Sliding my hand across the table, I take Benji's hand in mine and give it a squeeze. “Sorry. I... I'm sorry about all of that and... will understand perfectly if you never want anything to do with me again. I think the bastards went overboard with the... way they shared their displeasure with us for having gone off the reservation, and if there's anything I can do to...”

“I'd do it all over again if I had to,” Benji interjects quietly as, turning his head, he gives me a solemn look. “I mean, don't get me wrong. Last night was far from fun and... there really were times when I thought it was never going to end and that they were going to find a way to ship me off to Guantanamo or wherever by way of punishment, but I... I knew we were in the right and I'd do it all again.”

“I'm still sorry. I shouldn't have...”

“I'm not. I'm not sorry about any of my actions,” Benji states, for him, somewhat firmly. “Yeah. Fine. Whatever. Maybe we should have turned the Bratva over to IMF, but... You know something? The Bratva, even finding out who the mole was, they were all secondary to me as the main reason I got involved was for Will. I wanted to do what I could to help him and... even if you could have managed without me, I like to think that I still did my bit somehow. That... regardless of how small it might have been, I was able to help my friend and, for that reason alone, I don't care about last night.”

“Don't underestimate your involvement, Benji,” I reply, fixing him with a solemn look of my own, “as, and you've got to believe me here, I couldn't have done it without you. From... helping me identify Will in the first place to coming over to Ashford and setting up the surveillance, the part you played in all of it was invaluable and I don't want you to ever think that it wasn't.”

“Yeah?” His expression brightening a little, Benji sits up straighter and smiles. “Just... Thanks for that, Ethan. Knowing that I did actually help means a lot to me.”

“Contrary to what those pencil pushing pricks in Internal Affairs might have tried to convince you, you did the right thing by helping me, Benji, and I want you to know that I'll always be proud to have you on my side.” It suddenly occurring to me that, as out of the two of us he'd be both the... weaker link... and more dispensable, they might have tried to make Benji the scapegoat here, I sigh and, wanting to get it over with, quickly ask, “You've still got your job though, yeah?”

“They kept threatening to take it off me, but, yeah, I've still got it,” Benji responds with a nod. “Think I may be back on a probationary period, but... Again, whatever. I'm still here, you're... Uh... Shit! I'm sorry, Ethan. I haven't even asked about you. Are you...”

“I've been reinstated,” I state, cutting him off as, carrying a tray containing – oh, yay – three cups of coffee, Jane returns to the table and takes a seat next to Benji. “They'd have loved to have thrown my ass out the door, I'm sure of it, but in the end they just had to admit defeat and let me back in.” Taking one of the coffee's from Jane with a nod – because, really, groaning and passing comment along the lines of 'did you fucking have to?' wouldn't have been polite – of thanks, I catch her gaze and give her an inquiring look. “What about you, Jane? You still here playing happy families with us?”

Nodding, Jane takes a sip of coffee and, to my distinct amazement, smiles in apparent pleasure. “They read me the riot act, and tried to imply that I need to be more careful with who I align myself with,” she replies, shrugging, “but, yeah, I'm still here. I suspect I'll be watched for a while but, you know, I'm not going to lose any sleep over it, so... What's done is done. I'd do it again, anyway, and if they don't like it then that's just their bad luck.” Pausing, she shrugs again and gestures at my cup. “Go on. Be brave. You might even like it.”

“Uh... Thanks. It really was kind of you,” I murmur, using the cup still in my hand to point down at my other cup, “but as you can see...”

“What I see is a cup three-quarters full of some unidentifiable brown liquid masquerading as coffee,” Jane declares, laughing as she takes another sip of her own coffee. “This, however, is not... that, and if you'd just man up and take a mouthful of it already, I know that you'd like it.”

“But...”

“The lady behind the counter is Hanaway's second cousin,” Benji explains, taking pity on me as he picks his own cup up and promptly takes a mouthful of coffee without either pulling a face or spitting it straight back out. “And, because of this,” he continues, reaching over and tapping his finger on my cup, “she kindly gives Jane the good stuff, the stuff usually reserved solely for the Director and Secretary.”

“Oh...” There you go. It really is true that you can learn a new thing every day.

“Yeah. Oh,” Jane mutters with a grin. “So... Say thank you like you actually mean it, and... Enjoy your coffee.”

“Thank you,” I dutifully reply as, bringing the cup up to my lips, I realise that even the aroma of the coffee in it is different and take a much needed mouthful. “Hey... You're right. This really is the good stuff.”

“Proving that it's more... who... you know in this place than what you know,” Jane replies, toasting first Benji and then me with her cup. “Cheers. At least three of us are here to enjoy it.” 

“And on that note,” I murmur, watching Benji out of the corner of eye as, what energy he had left seemingly draining away by the second, he yawns and places his cup back down on the table. “Has anyone actually seen Will? I assume that he was taken to the infirmary...”

“He was,” Jane interjects. “He was taken to the infirmary, but... he's not there now and, no, we haven't seen him.”

“We have managed to find out where he is though,” Benji pipes up as he stifles another yawn. “Didn't think we were going to, but...”

“Refusing to take no for an answer, we persevered,” Jane finishes, frowning with concern at Benji's obvious tiredness, “and eventually found out that they've just... dumped... him in a safe-house, you know, the one in that crappy apartment block in Dupont Circle. They wanted him to stay under observation in the infirmary, but... as there wasn't any physical reason to keep him there, they... I suppose you could say they just washed their hands of him.” Pausing, she pulls a face and shakes her head. “I tried to get to see him last night, but they wouldn't let me anywhere near him and, courtesy of perhaps lurking a little longer than I should have in some place that I possibly shouldn't have been, I... I get the impression that they'd had to sedate him.”

“Damn,” I mutter as, catching sight of yet another idiot gawking over at me like I'm some sort of sideshow freak, I give in to the childish urge to poke my tongue out at them before, just like Luther did earlier, flipping them the bird. “Uh... Sorry,” I apologise as both Jane and Benji shoot me odd looks. “I suppose you could say I'm just a bit sick and tired of being stared at.”

“Fuck 'em,” Jane retorts as, proving that I really do know how to pick my friends, she spins around and carefully extends her middle finger to anyone who cares to be looking. “I don't know what you're doing here, anyway,” she adds, turning back around and picking up her cup. “Of all the places you could have chosen to hang out, you just had to choose the cafeteria.”

“I chose it because I hoped that's where you'd think to find me,” I reply, shrugging. “But... Back to Will... They kept him in the infirmary overnight before...”

“From what we've been able to gather, just dumping him in the safe-house,” Benji replies. “They couldn't keep him in for physical reasons, he probably wasn't talking, and... having cancelled his lease and packed up his stuff, I suspect they didn't know what else to do with him.”

“Well, it's just not good enough,” I complain, trying not to think of the confused state Will must be in by now. Back in D.C., removed from those he trusted, prodded, poked and questioned by those he was hoping to avoid, and now just... dumped, on his own, in a barely used, second rate safe-house. Hell. It probably would have been kinder if they'd just kept him sedated. “He needs to be looked after, not just... abandoned.”

“That's... what we were hoping you'd say,” Jane replies as she and Benji share a look.

“Huh? What are you...”

“We think you need to go to Will and, because I'm sure it would have to be nicer than the safe-house, take him back to your place,” Benji states quietly. “It's clear that he trusts you, and...”

“He trusts you, too,” I mutter, taken aback almost as much by the thought of this clearly being something both Jane and Benji have discussed amongst themselves as I am by... the thought of just taking Will home with me. I mean... I like him, and I know that I promised to be there for him, but... Share a roof with him? I don't know. Wouldn't that perhaps be taking things too far? Paris, and even Ashford, was different as we didn't have a choice, but he's home now and probably just needs to learn to stand on his own two feet.

Right?

“He trusts you more,” Benji states as, sharing another glance with Jane, he frowns and gives me a disappointed look. “But... Hey, I'd invite him to stay with me if I could. I only have a tiny one bedroom apartment though and don't really think he'd much like living in my pocket.”

“Or with that massive cardboard cut out of Spock either, for that matter,” Jane adds, shooting me her own look of disappointment as, shifting her chair closer to Benji's, she curls her arm around his elbow. “Oh, and don't look at me as I'm listed as active and will be sent out on the next mission that comes up. I'd take him in if I could, and, unlike some of us I wouldn't hesitate to offer my apartment to him, but I might have to leave at any time and...”

“Enough! I get it already,” I exclaim, countering their obvious disappoint in me with a warning look. “Believe it or not, I also understand where you're coming from and, to an extent, even agree with you. Think about it though, while it might seem... uncaring or whatever... don't you think Will should be given the time to... find his own way? I'm not saying we abandon him or don't visit, but he's got to be strong and...”

“No. He doesn't,” Benji mutters as, wanting me to know that he's not messing around here, he curls his hand tightly around my wrist. “Will doesn't need to be strong as... As he is strong. He's already made it this far, and I... I don't think he needs to be strong at all. I think he needs to be looked after and to know that he's not alone, that... he has people in his life that will do anything for him and... and are there for him!” Abruptly pulling his hand away, Benji glares at me and shakes his head. “Just... Fuck you, Ethan. I thought you'd changed, that... you'd learned to care again, but clearly... and how... I was wrong.”

“What? What are you...”

“I may not have known you before this, Ethan,” Jane states, as she both cuts me off and silences me with an icy look, “but, like everyone in this cafeteria, I knew... of... you. Now, what I also knew was, regardless of how good your reasons might have been, you'd turned into something of both a lone wolf and... an asshole. Pissed with the world, you'd cut yourself off from the agency, from... life, by all accounts, and, as no one wanted anything to do with you anyway, no one much cared.”

“If I'd wanted a character assassination I wouldn't have stayed down in the basement with Internal Affairs,” I retort flatly as, not needing to hear this, I start to push the chair back.

“Just... Sit down and shut up,” Jane orders in a voice loud enough to tell me in no uncertain terms that she means business and that I'd only live to regret it if I didn't do as I was told. “I hadn't finished.”

“Well, I don't want to...”

“Sit down and zip it.”

“Fine.” Folding my arms across my chest, I glower at Jane and give an insolent shrug. “You were saying?”

“Everything I'd heard about you, Ethan, made me want to avoid you like the plague,” Jane continues, locking her gaze on mine and out glaring me. “Then, however, when I did meet you, you... weren't like I'd been led to believe at all. Sure, you were determined and focused and all that, but, even though we were only together for a brief time, the one thing that stood out the most to me was... How much you cared for Will and how, everything you were doing, you were doing for him...”

“So?” Really not following where Jane is going with this, I glance at Benji and give another shrug. “What on earth are...”

“We think you need Will as much as he needs you,” Benji murmurs with a soft smile. “That's all. Maybe we've gone about it the wrong way, and... maybe we're wrong, but... Unlike Jane, I've been working with you these last twelve months, Ethan, and... since Will landed in your life you... have... changed. And... it's definitely for the better.”

“But...” Unfolding my arms, I – get off my high horse – accept that what they're saying is actually the truth and flash them both an apologetic, sheepish smile. “I... Sorry. Maybe you're right. I... I have been an asshole these past twelve months.”

“Albeit one with good reason,” Benji replies with a brief grin that quickly gives way to yet another yawn. “Uh... Excuse me. I don't think I'm designed for being interrogated all night.”

“Which is why I'm about to drive you home,” Jane replies as, keeping her arm around Benji's, she slowly stands up. “Ethan? What about you? Do you need a lift as well?”

I shake my head and, after standing up myself, help Benji – as he really does look as though he's going to doze off at any second – to his feet. “Thanks for the offer, but my car will hopefully still be down in the garage.”

“And...? What about Will?” Jane queries as, tightening her hold on Benji's elbow, she begins to lead him out of the cafeteria. “Are you going to go to him, or...”

“I”ll go to him,” I interrupt as, spotting Harry from accounts frowning at me, I bow grandly at him before hurrying to catch up with Jane. “I'm not promising that I... Uh... That I'll take him home with me, but... If it's what he wants...”

“He won't show it,” Benji mumbles as, too tired to even care anymore, he leans against Jane for support, “but it's what he wants... Ethan, you know Will. He won't want to be a nuisance, but...”

“What Benji is trying to say is... Don't let him down,” Jane states with a smile as, pulling her keys out of the pocket of her jeans, she leads Benji out of the cafeteria and turns him towards the right. “As my car is in the outside lot, this is where we say our goodbyes. So... See you later, Ethan, and... as I already know that you'll do the right thing, just... Thank you. Thank you for everything that you've done and... you'll have my assistance should you ever need it again.”

“Mmm... Thank you,” Benji murmurs, glancing over his shoulder and blinking sleepily at me. “Thank you for... rescuing Will and for... letting me help, but... mainly for rescuing Will.”

“I only did what anyone would have done,” I reply, reaching out and giving Benji a pat on the back before, not wanting to draw out the farewells any longer than they need to be, I turn and begin to walk away. 

“Should... have done,” Jane corrects. “Not everyone would have done what you did, Ethan, and... that's why we're lucky to have you.”

“Why... Will's... lucky to have you,” Benji adds.

“Enough with the guilt trip already!” I exclaim, laughing as I speed up my pace. “Just... Go home, the pair of you, and get some sleep.”

“See you, Ethan,” Jane calls out. “You know where to find us if you need anything.”

Choosing against replying for fear of further delaying our already extended long enough farewells, I continue along the corridor and, deciding against taking an elevator down to the underground garage because just about the last thing I want is to be stuck in a confined space with someone wanting to both stare and avoid eye contact with me at the same time, head in the direction of the stairwell. The path I've chosen taking me past the Wall of Remembrance, I glance up at it as I pass and what I see causes me to come to an instant stop.

Standing on a ladder leaning securely against the wall, a man, recognisable as part of the maintenance crew by his dirty white coveralls, works intently on removing Will's name from the gold embossed list of the dead, and...

I remember.

I remember that it was the photo of his name on this very wall that had such a devastating effect on Will and which caused him to give up all hope.

I remember how, in Ashford, he confessed that he was worried about what was going to become of him once he was back in D.C..

I also remember that...

… I promised to be there for him.

And...

I know what it is that I have to do.

In fact, I don't even know why I hesitated when Benji first mentioned it to me.

I'm tired, in a far from a fabulous mood, and have to confess that I hadn't even thought of opening my house up to Will, but...

Of course I'll go to him.

And of course I'll – do whatever it takes to – convince him to come home with me, that... if he doesn't, then I'll just have to stay there in the safe-house with him.

Part of me, the part that's always put Ethan Hunt, Agent, above Ethan Hunt, Actual Human Being, still thinks that perhaps leaving on his own... would... be for the best. With no one hovering around him he'd have to make up his mind quick smart in respect to how much effort he was really prepared to put into pulling himself back together and, once it was done and he was back walking the corridors of HQ, he could take pride in knowing that he'd done it all himself. Logic, that IMF tinged logic that I've spent too long living my life by, tells me that... going it alone... really would be for his best, long term interests.

The other part of me though, the rusty-with-disuse 'Human' part, tells me that, like the others basically implied, leaving him to fend for himself really would just be unnecessarily cruel. If he had actual family they'd be there for him and would do what they could to help without first taking a step back and toying with the notion of – solely to help him... harden up, of course – simply leaving him to it. No. They'd be there for him because he was family and they wanted what was best for him.

So... In lieu of family, I, with help from Benji and Jane, simply have to take their place and do what we can.

In hindsight, it really is just... instinctual. 

So instinctual, that I can't believe I even hesitated.

Maligning the fact that I don't have a phone with me to take a photo of Will's name being removed from the wall, I continue my way over to the stairwell and open the door. Entering it, I start to walk down the stairs and slowly begin to feel my mood improving with every inch I move closer to putting the IMF headquarters in my rear vision mirror. I don't know what I'm going to find when I make it to the safe-house but, right now, I don't even care as, suddenly, all I want is simply to see Will. Maybe he'll be okay, and... maybe he won't even want to come with me. Alternatively, maybe he'll be in a bad way and I'll have to revert to having one of my headless-chicken moments where I won't know what to do. I know it's a blasé attitude to have, and that it might not survive the opening of the apartment's door, but, again, right now I just don't care. 

For a while there, especially during the gruelling – not to mention repetitive and tedious – interrogation, I started to feel... distant... from Will, as though our time together had already run its course. I'd rescued him, done what I could to keep him together, and, that was it, my work was done. It didn't particularly sit right with me, but at the same time I was prepared to make my peace with it. Everything that happened in both Paris and Ashford was history and, if we had to go our separate ways then... so be it. Will didn't need me anymore, I certainly didn't... need... him, and...

It was over.

If the PTB had dragged me up from the basement and sent me straight out on another mission, I would have gone. I just would have. I'm an Agent. It's what I do.

In this instance though, I'm glad that they didn't.

Logic might dictate that I don't... need... to see William Brandt, but I want to. He's been my constant companion for ten days now and I both care about him and want to continue being his friend. It may not exactly be the greatest basis for a friendship, but we've shared a lot together, he and I, and I would like nothing more than to be able to keep him in my life. Jane and Benji, too.

Need.

Who knows. Maybe the pair of them are even right in that, in some round about sort of way, I... do... need Will, that he keeps me... grounded somehow.

All I know for certain is that, suddenly, I can hardly wait to see him.

Reaching the level for the parking garage, I walk out of the stairwell and, after pausing by the key-safe to retrieve my keys, start glancing around the lot for my Mercedes. Finding it both right at the back and alongside a silver Jaguar parked on a decidedly distinct angle, I jog over to the car and, after unlocking it with the remote, open the door and slide behind the wheel. The engine purring immediately into life the second I press the start button, I pull my seatbelt on and, after carefully manoeuvring it out from next to the far-too-close-for-comfort Jag, drive up the ramp and out on to the road. Although the Mercedes' rain-sensing wipers come on the moment it's free of the covered ramp, I barely notice the grey sky and heavy rain and simply concentrate on driving through the traffic to Dupont Circle.

The rainy weather having, as usual, brought every lunatic to have ever gotten behind the wheel of a motor vehicle out on to the road at exactly the same time, traffic remains heavy for the duration of my journey and it takes me far longer to reach the apartment block than I would have liked. Bringing the Mercedes to a stop in the No Parking zone directly in front of the block's front door, I quickly put the memory of the... lairy... drive behind me though and climb out of the car. Running up to the entrance, I enter the security number into the pad by the heavy glass door and, once it's clicked open, make my way inside. The bored looking concierge behind the front desk being far more interested in whatever it is he's got up on the screen of his iPad than he is in whoever it is that's just entered his building, he barely glances at me as I wait for the elevator and this only increases my dislike for this particular apartment block. I mean, as safe-houses go, just... how safe can it truly be if anyone can walk in straight off the street and wander around as though they own the place?

The arrival of the elevator saving me from walking back over to the concierge and – rudely interrupting the quality time he's having with his iPad – sarcastically inquiring as to whether he'd actually like to know who I was or what I was doing, I get in and hit the button for the fifth floor. Once there, I make my way along the corridor to room number seventy-eight and knock loudly on the door. When this has no effect and I accept that I can hear no sounds of movement coming from inside the apartment, I knock again and call out Will's name. This too, although I repeat it a couple of times, having no more effect than my original knock did, I turn to the numerical lock on the door and quickly enter the required pin number to unlock it.

“Hey, Will. It's me, Ethan,” I call out as I walk into the apartment and look around it for signs of life. It being close to the same size and designed around the same layout as the flat in Paris, the front door opens into an open-plan living-slash-kitchen area and, as I walk through it towards the bedroom, I can see a couple of white plastic grocery bags sitting abandoned on the kitchen bench. Still full and with one of the bags clinging to what I imagine has to be a carton of milk inside it, I deduce that while whoever it was that dropped Will off had the forethought to supply him with a few essentials, they couldn't actually be bothered to hang around long enough to unpack them and, not surprisingly, this causes a fresh wave of annoyance to wash over me.

Dump him here, and just... go. Don't ask if he'd like company or if there's anything he'd perhaps like done, just... Do your job and fuck off.

“Will? Where are you?” Not liking what I've seen so far, I very nearly trip over his bag – the same bag I bought for him in Paris – as it lies, again, just dumped, outside the bedroom door and, clinging desperately to the hope that the reason he hasn't answered me is simply because he's asleep, walk into the room. Finding the bed both empty and very much untouched, I frown and, as panic is just beginning to make its way over me, turn to make my way into the bathroom.

And that's when I see him.

Sitting on the floor, his back pressed into the corner, and, just like on the bed in Ashford, hugging his knees to his chest while he rests his head down on his folded arms.

Broken.

Spat out by the infirmary and just... left.

Abandoned, just as I could have so easily have done to him.

“I...” Kneeling down in front of him, I place my hand lightly on his arm and try not to... hate too much... how he immediately cringes at my touch. “Come on, Will,” I murmur. “I had been going to ask but, as I've already got my answer, let's just get out of here.”

“I...” Lifting his head, Will gives me such a downtrodden look that it actually causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up. “I... I'm sorry,” he mumbles. “Just... You don't need...”

“Shhh...” Silencing him by placing the tip of my finger against his dry lips, I shake my head and, shifting a small distance backwards, hold out my hand for him to take it. “You're wrong. I do actually need you and, as I've got both a big house and a guest room, I want you to come home with me.”

“But, I...” Whimpering, he drops his gaze back to his knees. “I'm nothing but a... nuisance to you, to... everyone, and...”

“You're not a nuisance and, at the risk of sounding dictatorial here, I'm not actually going to take no for an answer,” I reply, curling my fingers in an open invitation for him to place his hand in mine. “It's either you come with me or I... I'm staying here with you. As I think I may have told you in Ashford, you're not alone and I'm here for you, I... want... to be here for you. You don't need to stay here if you don't want to, and I... I really do want you to come home with me. My place is big enough for you to get some of your stuff out of storage and to make yourself at home in, and...” Pausing, I smile encouragingly at Will as he looks up at me through downcast eyes and stretch my fingers out closer towards him. “Unless you can come up with a very good reason as to why this... shouldn't... be the case, I'm not leaving here without you.”

“I...” Unfolding his arms, Will tentatively places his hand in mine and whispers, “Please... I... I know that I shouldn't, that... that, having already done enough for me, I... should leave you in peace, but... Please. I can't think of anything I'd like... more... than to go home with you...”

~*~*~*~


	14. Chapter 14

~*~*~*~

Killing the engine, I undo my seatbelt and, as the electronic garage door glides silently shut behind me and the movement activated sensor lights turn themselves off, just settle back in my seat. I'm home, the announcement I'm going to have to make to Will, I know, will be greeted with easy, unbothered acceptance, I'm okay with both the reasoning behind it and just what it is it's going to entail, and...

I don't know.

I suppose I'm just wanting to make the most of what may well prove to be my last few moments of... alone-time... for the foreseeable future.

Maybe I'm... decompressing.

Isn't that one of the latest, go-to terms? Like catharsis, or... cathartic experience... was a couple of years back now. Instead of simply relaxing, you... decompress.

I'm sitting in my garage, in my Mercedes, and... because a mission has come along and is about to put a very definite end to the stint of domesticity I've been enjoying for the past six weeks, I'm taking a moment to... work through how I feel about things and... decompress.

It's not as though I don't want to go as, knowing that I'm the best placed agent to do the job and that it would take too long to both train and set up anyone else to do it, I do. I have to go. It's a world, a decidedly unpleasant and underground one that doesn't take too kindly to outsiders, that I've been in before and which, having the previous experience in, I know I can successfully navigate again. I don't like it, and having to play the role of a racist member of a white supremacist motorcycle gang is one that stretches the limits of my acting abilities, but, having done it before, I know that I can do it again. I have the background and the knowledge, and what I also have are the connections that, despite five years having passed since I last had to deal with them, will gain me immediate access to the gang in question.

Michael O'Laughlin. 

Mickey O.

Up and coming member of the Southern Brotherhood Motorcycle Club. You name it and Mickey O can get it for you. Bike parts, drugs, women, C4, the still bleeding hand of a rival gang member.... Whatever you want, Mickey O is your man. Make a list, pay his price, and... just sit back and wait until he delivers. Cunning, connected, creative, and mother fucking crazy – that's Mickey O.

And, just having finished a stint behind bars, you can bet your bottom dollar that he'll be wanting to make up for lost time and there won't be a damn thing he won't do to prove his loyalty .

I don't like Mickey O, or the world he plays in, but knowing that my own life and possibly that of others as well depends on it, I can become him. The battered leathers with all their patches, the Harley Davidson that receives more attention, care, and both love and devotion then any living person ever would, the weapons, the borderline insane racist diatribes, the having to live and bond with crazy ass red-necks who, if given a choice, you wouldn't even piss on if they were on fire...

As missions go, they really don't get much... better... than this.

I get to leave my home, and the really rather pleasant time I've been having recently, in order to put my ass on the line and hopefully do what I can to stave off another domestic terrorism attack by a bunch of inbred, xenophobic and, quite frankly, brain dead bikers.

Just... Yay for me.

I'll do it, and I'll do it well. Of course I will. I'm just not rapt in it, that's all. When all is said and done though, it really is just a case of... Whatever. A mission is a mission and, regardless of how well I've been coping with my recent role of overseeing the training of a fresh group of rookies, this is what I do. I pull on a mask, either figuratively or literally, put my own life on hold, and off I go. Normally I wouldn't even hesitate. I'd just accept the mission, throw some stuff together if I had the time, and be on my way. 

Then again, normally... I'm on my own and don't have a house guest to take in to consideration as well.

Will, and I am actually confident of this, will be fine. He needs a roof over his head more than he needs me, and while said roof might currently be... my... roof, it's not as though it has to be. IMF having come through in spades with what I call guilt money – 'Sorry about taking your death at face value and, you know, leaving you in hell for six months, but, here, have a cheque with a lot of zeros on the end because, hey, that'll make up for it.' – he has more than enough cash to get his own place and has in fact even recently started to look around for something. He doesn't have to go, and hopefully I've done a good enough job of impressing on him that he's welcome to stay for as long as he likes, that I'm – more than – fine with his company, but I get the impression that he feels that he has to. Not so much because he actually wants to, or even because he feels he might be outstaying his welcome, but because the time is rapidly approaching when he... has to. For himself. He has to branch out and fully regain his independence to prove that he can, and that, in time, he... will... be okay on his own. 

Speaking both selfishly and for myself here, having adapted so effortlessly to having him around, I actually wouldn't care if he never left. He will, and I both appreciate why this has to happen and will continue to be his friend and support him in any way that I can, but, again, it's not exactly as though I'm in any rush to chase him out the door. A mission having landed in my lap a little earlier than I'd been expecting it to, I'd hoped to be still around when it came to helping him move in somewhere and now, being nothing if not fluid in my plans, I hope I can convince him to stay right where he is until I get back. Not because I don't think he's perfectly capable of doing these things on his own, but just because I want to be there and want to help.

Even if he doesn't need me anymore, I want to be there for Will because he...

… He's given me so much.

Trust. Acceptance. Friendship. Companionship. A sense of purpose and achievement that, for once, has nothing to do with IMF. Someone to... look out for, and worry about, and, yes, even care about, not because it's expected of me but because it's instinctual.

He's also... changed me. Through no actual effort or intent on his part, he's turned everything that I'd come to take for granted upside down. There's more to life than work... So what if you're pissy with your employer? Either suck it up, do what you can to rediscover your enthusiasm for it, or stop whining and look for something new... Luther isn't your only friend and, it taking two to tango and all that, if you're nice to others they'll be nice to you... Closing yourself off isn't actually the be all and end all that you'd come to think it is... Guess what? You do still know how to laugh and have fun... You're also more than adept at putting the needs of others above your own... Flying solo might be okay for a while, but compared to having people around you, people who... want... to be around you and who know how to get through to you, it... doesn't really compare at all... Living alone? That's not as fabulous as you've been telling yourself it is either...

I owe him, in ways that he'll never know, a lot.

He might think that he owes me, but if our ledgers were tallied up I honestly think they'd come out about even. Sure, he might argue that I gave him his life back, but, okay, in an admittedly far less graphic way, that's exactly how I feel about him, that... he's effectively given me my life back as well.

It's not – has never been, and never will be – about debts though. Be it through kismet or twists of fate or whatever, we fell into each other's lives, and... Here we are.

Six weeks on from returning to D.C., and it's like we've always known each other. Having Will in my life is just... second nature to me. I know that, if we're both home for a meal that, both liking it far more than I do, and being far better at it than I'll ever be, he'll cook something that we can sit down and eat together. I know that there's a list of things longer than my arm that still, and possibly always will, make him uncomfortable. Sex scenes in television shows or movies, the gym at HQ, feeling as though people are looking at him, the thought of stripping down to shorts and, even though it's something he used to love, going swimming, complete darkness... He tries to hide it, but he wears what happened to him like a shroud. It's just always with him. I can see it, regardless of how innocent the event might have seemed to anyone else, in his eyes. He wants so desperately to return to how he was, and it's not as though he's not trying or not fighting every step of the way, but I'm just not sure that he ever will. He'll get close, and I know that he'll both adapt to his new life and thrive, but it won't ever be the same.

I wish it could be, but it won't. 

Losing six months of your life is bad enough without having what Will had to endure thrown into the mix as well.

Personally, I still think that it's remarkable that he's done as well as he has. Especially seeing as I thought things had taken a turn for the worse that first week after he'd moved in with me. Instead of moving forward every day with his recovery like he had been in Paris, he just took to bed and pretty much stayed there. Not really knowing what to think of this... backwards move, I reverted to hovering and – supplying chocolate, water, and a worried looking face in his doorway – thinking the worst like I had in the flat back in Pigalle. It got so bad on the third day, after my momentary success of having nagged him into taking a shower ended with him, once clean and clad in fresh pyjamas, crawling straight back into bed and going to sleep, that I was actually going to bite the bullet and reluctantly call the infirmary when, out of the blue, Benji came up with a logical explanation for his behaviour that I hadn't even thought of.

Instead of being depressed or having given up like I was thinking had to be the case, he was just... recharging. In Paris, while he would have been relieved to be in my little flat as opposed to locked away in the basement of the club, he also would have been apprehensive and constantly aware of the fact that it wasn't yet fully over, that there was still more to get through. So... Relieved, yes, but not... relaxed. Back in D.C. though, and with Salter in the ground and the knowledge that, finally, it really was all over, he was able to just... relax.

Relax, and give in to giving his body what it needed to recover. Which was sleep, followed by more sleep, and with a little extra serving of sleep on the side. While Round One might have taken place in Paris, it had, by necessity, been both rushed and truncated. Round Two, however, safe in a comfortable bedroom and under the care of two people he knew he could trust, was a slower, more leisurely affair.

Far from surprisingly, the result was better for it, too.

After close to a week of – recharging – sleeping, Will slipped out of bed before me one morning and had breakfast sitting on the table by the time, still rubbing sleep out of my eyes and not entirely convinced that I hadn't just dreamt the noises coming from downstairs, I stumbled into the kitchen.

And, really, he's been moving forward at a steady pace ever since.

No one expecting miracles – or, never having been in this particular boat before, anything, really – he's just done his own thing and, again, I think the inroads he's made are nothing short of remarkable. What started as a couple of hours here or there of either boredom or curiosity inspired research into IMF's current crop of intel quickly moved on to a few hours of actually being in the office every second or so day and now, six weeks on, he's basically trialling a nine-to-five role back in the Analysts' Section. Having missed his skills and the way he seems to be able to narrow in on the crux of the matter before anyone else has even gotten on to that page, the PTB would like – to consume him – more, but I get the impression from Will that this isn't a fight they currently have any hope of winning. He's pleased to be back at work, and I just know that he gets a huge boost out of feeling useful, but he's not up to pulling an all-nighter yet, and nor is he ready to have to present his recommendations in a high-powered conference setting. Research is fine. Even being in the office, so long as everyone keeps their distance, is... tolerable. The thought of standing at the front of a huge conference table and have a bunch of people in suits stare at him though? Yeah. Not so much. Play an important role in the background? Fine. Be the centre of attention? Not on your life.

While it's not something I've come out and asked him, I think he's leaning towards making his role as an analyst his full time one and that he's not particularly wanting to return to field work. Whether this is because he's afraid of being captured again or whether it's because he doesn't feel up to it isn't something I can hazard a guess at and, as it's only a decision Will can make for himself, it's not something I'm even going to raise. 

He's working, functioning better than I suspect most people would be given the same set of circumstances, and I'm proud of him. I'm proud of how far he's come in such a relatively short period of time, and I'm proud that I was able to play some small part in respect to this.

I...

I also...

I look at Will, and I...

… I want...

Fuck.

I want what I can't have, that's what. 

And wasting time thinking about it is as bad as... ever having allowed the thought to cross my mind in the first place is, so...

The time has clearly come to get out of the car and get the next part of this – never dull, that's for sure – show on the road.

Sighing, I carefully open the Mercedes' door so that it doesn't bump against Will's black Audi S5 Coupe – the car Jane very kindly passed through town and insisted, I suspect because she wanted it herself but couldn't afford it, that he buy – and gingerly climb out. The Audi being a lot bigger than the Volvo hatchback that Julia used to have – and what is it about doctors and Volvos, anyway? – the garage is a little cramped with the two cars parked side by side in it, yet I already know that I'll miss the S5 when it's gone, that I'd rather have it there as it would mean Will was inside than I would the space.

But, you know, that's another one of those things that I don't really want to think about.

Closing the door, I squeeze past the Audi and enter the house through the door in the garage. The only light on the ground floor coming from the living room, I make a beeline for it and, as I half suspected would be the case when I saw the glow emanating through the window when I pulled in to the driveway, I find Will on the sofa. Curled up against the over-stuffed arm and sound asleep, he makes for such an endearing picture that, as I lean against the doorframe watching him, I can't help but smile. Dressed in the same forest green – grandfather style – pyjamas that I got for him in Paris and which I get the impression, seeing as he's got the contents of his own wardrobe back now and doesn't have to be wearing them, he's somewhat taken with, and with his glasses already half-slipping off his nose, he really does look a vision and, as the spectre of Mickey O looms over my shoulder, I realise with a pang of regret that I don't actually want to go at all.

I will.

But only because I have to.

Although I don't know if the glasses are a new, courtesy of being kept in the dark for too long, thing or whether he's had them for years, he seems to bring them out to read with when he's tired and proving, I think, that I need to get – laid – out more, I have to confess to having something of an... appreciation... for them. Glasses have never been my thing before, and it's not as though I now find myself checking out any man who just happens to be wearing a pair as he strays across my path, but...

On Will, like the dorky-and-unfashionable-on-anyone-else pyjamas, they just happen to suit. 

In fact, the glasses and grandfather pyjamas combo that he's currently sporting, they actually, and don't ask me how, make him look younger.

Innocent, even.

All in all, he just looks good. His hair, according to Benji, is back to the length and style it was before, he's put on just enough weight so that clothes no longer hang loosely off him, and he looks healthy. The dark circles under his eyes have gone, there's colour in his cheeks, and if you had no idea who he was and just passed him in the street, the only thing that'd cross your mind if you looked at him would be... 'What an attractive man'. 

I know him, and while I probably shouldn't, it's what I think myself.

Attractive.

Desirable.

… Off limits.

My... appreciation... of Will's glasses stretching as far as not wanting them to fall onto the floor and risk having a foot planted on them, I sneak over to the sofa and have just reached for them when, of course, he has to open his eyes and blink at me.

“Uh... Glasses,” I mutter as, still looking half asleep, Will pushes himself up into a bit more of a sitting position and stretches. “I was just... rescuing your glasses, that's all. I wasn't... uh...”

“It's okay, Ethan,” he interrupts with a smile as, saving me the trouble, he takes his glasses off and places them on the lamp table. “If I thought you were after... uh... anything else, trust me, you'd know about it already as I'd either be giving you a damn good show of being catatonic or just locked in my room already.”

“Uh...”

“Joke,” Will murmurs, his smile slipping as he gives me a worried look. “A bad attempt at one, granted, but I really did mean it as a joke. I... I mean, I know you... wouldn't, that it's not as though you'd even be interested...”

“I just didn't want to accidentally shock you,” I reply, hiding my discomfort behind both an easy smile and a quick shrug and, be it cowardly of me or not, glossing right over reading between the lines of his... telling... response. “So... Uh... Sorry. Next time I find you asleep like this, your glasses, they're on their own.”

“What time is it, anyway?” Will queries as, having done his bit to quickly change the subject, he tries to look past me in order to read the digital screen on the DVD player under the television set. “I'd been going to bed. I'd even had a shower and, as you can see, put my pyjamas on, but...” Trailing off, he retrieves his iPad from down the side of the sofa and places it on his lap. “There was this house I'd liked the look of, and which, before I went to bed, I wanted to have another look at the plans for. So...”

“You came back downstairs to check it out, and... the next thing you know I'm standing it front of you and reaching for your glasses,” I finish as, not wanting to appear as though I'm hovering over him, I take a seat on the opposite end of the sofa. “Oh... And it's nearly two, by the way. Sorry. I'd never planned to be this late. Like you, the time clearly just got away from me. But... What about the house? Does it still strike you as promising?”

Will shakes his head and, leaning forward, places the iPad on the coffee-table. “Gated community, top-of-the-range security system, nice décor, and... far too many points of entrance. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen a house with so many outside doors in it.”

“So... That'd be a no, then,” I reply with a nod of understanding. Gated communities, panic rooms, and security systems, while an immensely appealing selling point to most, just don't mean all that much to people in our line of work. Instead of seeing a reassuring degree of protection, what we see is what it's going to take us to crack everything and just break in anyway. And lots of doors, they're just a big no-no as, the more doors there are, the more entrance points there are, and from a security point of view, a house with more than three doors is just best avoided. “Still... You know though that I'm okay with you staying here for as long as you want, that... this isn't something you have to rush into.”

“I know,” Will responds, giving me a tired smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. “I know that you've been nothing other than extremely welcoming to me and... and that I'm not even sure you'll ever be truly aware of just how grateful I am for everything you've done for me, or... how much it meant to me when, even though your self-imposed task was effectively done and dusted, you came to the safe-house and invited me to stay with you. Ethan, you... You've been so kind to me, above and beyond kind, actually, and, once again you probably don't even know how much this means to me, I know that I'm welcome to stay here for as long as I like, but...”

“There's no need for a... but,” I interject, gesturing expansively around the living room. “Mi casa es su casa. Seriously, Will. You really can stay here for as long as you like.”

“I know,” he whispers as, his smile fading, he looks down at the coffee-table, “and I thank you for it, but... I... What I also know is that I... can't, that I'm going to... have... to go.”

“Why? If you think I'm lying when I say that I'm okay with having you here, you'd be...”

“It's not that,” Will murmurs. “I... The reason I have to go is because I... I don't want to.”

“Then... Don't,” I state in a simple, matter-of-fact tone. “Don't go.”

“Please, Ethan. Just listen to what I'm trying to say,” Will replies as, sighing, he looks at me with the sad expression on his face that I hate so much. “I have to leave here, because... I have to know that I can. I don't want to, and I'll admit that the thought of being on my own again in what's going to be an unfamiliar environment is freaking me out a little, but I... It's just something that I have to do. I like it here, and the path of least resistance is to simply take you up on generous offer and stay put, but... You know as well as I do that I can't, that I have to find the... courage... to branch out on my own.”

“I...” Nodding, I place my hand on Will's arm and flash him a gentle smile. “So long as it's not a... slight on my skills as a host, I understand what you're saying and you're right... Of course you are.”

“It's not a... slight on your skills as a host at all,” he responds as, placing his feet on the floor, he sits up straighter and shifts a little closer to me. “I like it here. I like it here... a lot. I like the house. I like the neighbourhood. And I definitely like the own...” Suddenly falling silent as he realises that he's perhaps said too much, Will shakes his head and shrugs. “Uh... Seeing though as I haven't yet found anywhere that meets my possibly over stringent requirements, this, I think, is a conversation that can probably be put off for a bit longer yet. So...” Still doing his best to cover his perceived faux pas, he smiles a tad too brightly and fixes me with a look that's as much 'don't make an issue out of it and just follow my lead' as it is inquiring. “Don't tell me, let me guess... You scored the Florida mission...”

“How'd you know...” It being my turn to fall abruptly silent, I roll my eyes and laugh. Just... This. This in a nutshell is one of the many things I just love about having Will so much a part of my day-to-day life. 

While we may, thanks to our own unique sets of deeply entrenched issues, skate around our feelings for each other, the one thing we can be completely honest about is work. We're both employed by the same agency and enjoy the same security clearance, and, when it comes to what exactly it is we do to earn a living, there doesn't have to be any secrets. I can come home and vent about my day trying to teach a bunch of seemingly quite low I.Q. rookies how to be a successful spy without, for once, having to censor myself or, even worse, just lie. No... 'Hi honey, I'm home after yet another tiresome day pushing paper around my desk'. Or... 'I'd love for you to see where I work, I really would, but... Can you believe the renovations... still... aren't finished and they're only allowing essential personnel in the building?'. With Will, unlike with Julia and all those I failed dismally in my attempt to have a meaningful relationship with before her, I can just... be myself. No lies. No constant fear of being caught out. No increasingly creative excuses. Just plain old truth.

He knows about Florida and the mission without me even having to tell him because...

Truth be told, given how he always seems to have his finger directly on the pulse when it comes to intel, he probably knew about it hours, if not days, before I did.

“Why do I get the impression you were probably involved in researching it, huh?” I mutter with a grin as, telling myself he made the first move anyway, so, hey, it has to be an okay thing to do, I shift closer to Will and very gently dig my elbow into his side. “Let me guess, I was the last one to know, yeah?”

“Something like that,” he replies, smiling as he leans against me. “I... may... have caught the chatter about wanting to target a Florida mosque. And, okay, I... may... have ran it up the flagpole of being of possible interest...”

“I'll be sure to remember your involvement in all of this when I'm surrounded by leather-clad red-necks and knee deep in some swamp somewhere,” I retort as, hoping this move proves to be as successful as my first one was, I drape my arm around Will's shoulders and pull him even closer to me.

“Maybe this is just my way of ensuring that I get to stay here in this house,” Will offers as, smirking, he curls his legs back up onto the sofa and, with no hesitation whatsoever, relaxes into my embrace. “I mean, I keep telling myself that I've got to do the independent thing at some point, and... well... I really do like it here...”

“So... Thanks to having free rein over the Analysts' Section, you've come up with a dastardly plan to feed me to some red-neck bikers just so you can take over my house, huh?”

“Not quite knowing where they stand on cannibalism, I was going to be happy if you just fell foul of a gator.”

“Oh. Lovely. Even better. Your plan to get rid of me now consists of me becoming... alligator fodder? Remind me, yeah, to never get on your bad side.”

“Alligators have got to eat too, you know.”

“You've thought of everything, then.”

“I'm very thorough.”

“Would you like me to make the house over to you in my will, or have you got that covered as well?”

“Would you? It sure would make things a lot easier.”

“Smart ass!” It getting too much for me, I give in to laughter as, having reached the point of no return himself, Will starts to laugh as well. “With friends like you, William, seriously, who needs a gang of racist bikers as enemies...”

And... Okay. This, I like too. The easy banter. Will clearly being content with both being this close to me and the feel of my arm around his shoulders. The feel, the very... warmth... of him as he leans against me.

Companionship.

Understanding.

Unassuming comfort.

The thought that, regardless of how... wrong... it might be to be so much as entertaining the idea in the first place, there could perhaps one day be something... more.

“I...” His expression turning serious, Will sighs and locks his suddenly troubled looking gaze on mine. “As all of that was just a joke, I... I promise you, Ethan, that if you need me I'll be there for you,” he declares solemnly. “You have my word. If for whatever reason you ever need me, I'll be there.”

~*~*~*~


	15. Chapter 15

~*~*~*~ 

“Regrets, I've had a few... I travelled each and ev'ry highway...And more, much more than this...” Pausing, I clear my throat and stare defiantly at the pissed off looking red-neck striding towards me before, with a feral grin, upping the volume of my discordant singing and really going for it.

“I did it... my... way...”

“Shut the fuck up, ya crazy fuckin' bastard!” The red-neck, clearly not being a fan of my vocal prowess, gives my cage a vicious kick and, just for good measure, waves his ever present gun at me.

Pretty much beyond caring at this point, I gaze up at him as – all but frothing at the mouth – he huffs and puffs and... wishes to God he had the guts to just finish me off, and, solely because I know it'll really push his buttons, find the energy from somewhere to give him an insolent shrug. “I find it all so amusing...”

“What the fuck did I just say?” he demands, leaning in close and, you know, on the off chance I hadn't yet grasped that, why, yes, he does have a Smith & Wesson clutched in his meaty paw, pointing the gun directly at my forehead.

“Oh, no, oh no, not me, I did it... my... way!” I – and let's not beat around the bush here – howl as, baring my teeth at him, I lean forward and rest my forehead against the muzzle of his gun.

“Crazy mother fucker,” he mutters, glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone is paying him the slightest bit of attention before, with a scowl, pulling his gun back and giving the cage another bone-rattling – mine, not his – kick.

“The record shows I took the blows and did it... my... way!”

“What fuckin' part of... shut the fuck up... ain't ya getting?”

Sighing, I give the man a pitying look and slowly shake my head. “I take it you're not a fan of Ol' Blue Eyes, then.”

“Huh?” he grunts, giving me a suspicious look as though, I don't know, I've suddenly started speaking in tongues. “What the fuck are ya talkin' about?”

“Ol' Blue Eyes,” I repeat patiently. “Frank Sinatra. You know... Did It My Way?”

“What the fuck? Uh...” Shrugging his stupidly broad shoulders, the red-neck sneers at me and begins to walk off. “'Cos ya clearly not all there, I'm gonna cut ya some slack and go back to doin' what I was doin'. Just... No more with the singin', okay, or I ain't gonna be as...”

“Charming?”

“I was gonna say backwards in comin' forwards.”

“A little singing... Sorry. My mistake. A little... singin'... never hurt anyone.”

“My daddy always told me there was an exception to every rule.”

“Exception... Wow. I'm impressed. Did it take your daddy a long time to learn such a... big... word?”

Coming to a slow and lumbering stop, the red-neck shrugs again and smirks over his shoulder at me. “Ya know, ya sure do have a big mouth for someone not much long for this world.”

“I did it my way,” I grind out, not even bothering with attempting to sing the line this time as, having had my... fun... for the time being, I slump against the back of the cage and, in a move that immediately reminds me of both Will and how truly fucked things really are, hug my knees to my chest. “Regrets, I've had a few,” I whisper to myself as, resting my cheek on my knees, I close my eyes. “And now, as the tears subside, I did it... my way...”

It was never meant to go like this.

Welcomed back into the fold of the Southern Brotherhood like a long lost racist and bigoted brother, things had all been going nicely to plan. For three weeks I'd ranted with fervent vigour about how 'poorly' the white man was being treated by his country, strutted around in my leathers as though I thought I owned the place, and, viewing my heinous behaviour as perfectly normal, I was just readily accepted in the gang. In fact, it was almost as though I'd never left them. They shared their considerable stash of alcohol with me, let me in on a few raids on their enemies, promised me a back tattoo 'beyond my wildest imagination' once their pet tattooist, Scribe, had dried out and got over his latest bout of the shakes, and...

Life, for Mickey O, was pretty fucking good.

I'd even learned that their planned target was the Masjid Miami Gardens, the largest mosque in Florida and, while the date of their attack hadn't yet been decided, this piece of intel alone made my sacrifice of having to be undercover in the gang worthwhile.

Then...

Things didn't just go pear shaped, they went to hell in a fucking hand basket.

It'd be funny... No. Make that, it would be fucking... hilarious...

… If only I wasn't living it.

The Aryan Warriors, or, as they're more commonly known amongst other biker gangs, the Aryan Wannabes, discovering that they had their own sordid little version of Romeo and Juliet – alternatively, as that would no doubt be too erudite for their limited brain cells to compute, a forbidden love affair between the Jets and the Sharks – in their midsts, they, in all their limited wisdom, decided to mount a revenge-fuelled raid on the Southern Brotherhood's compound, and...

As bad ideas go it was a fucking... epic... one.

Arguably logical, if your brain works like theirs – as a collective – does, but... Not good. Not good at all.

Gypsy-Rose – and, seriously, even the names of the lovestruck protagonists tickle my slightly delirious fancy – being the sixteen year old daughter of a founding Aryan Warriors member, and... Chevy, the twenty-three year old son of the Brotherhood's second-in-command, met, most likely at a gator hunting party when they both reached for the same bottle of Jack Daniels, and, as you do, fell immediately in – forbidden – love. That, or Chevy just couldn't keep it in his pants and, Gypsy-Rose, being young and – inbred – impressionable took it to mean they were betrothed, and, blah, blah, blah, one thing leading to another, Chevy's soon to be a daddy to either a little Camaro or Lilly-Mae and the Wannabes ain't happy about it.

They ain't happy about it at all. 

Gypsy-Rose – and, having seen her overly-blonde and overly-tattooed looking mother who I'd put in her low thirties at best, I don't really know what they're so revved up about as, hey, it's not like the apple's fallen far from the tree – has been banished to parts unknown and, wanting to make Chevy 'pay' for tainting their precious little angel, the Wannabes decided that the way to go about this was to march into the Brotherhood's compound and abduct him.

Again, as you do. 

Needless to say the Brotherhood, who up until this point had been blissfully ignorant of who exactly it was Chevy had been giving it to, did not take too kindly to fifteen members of the Wannabes breaking into their fortress and a bloody skirmish ensued. 

A bloody skirmish that, simply because I happened to be there at the time, I just had to get involved in.

Bullets and expletives were flying everywhere, the Wannabes, realising just a little too late that they were in above their heads and sinking fast, were running around everywhere and, somehow, don't ask me fucking how, one of the stupid bastards managed to shoot me in the side. Only a through and through, but, still... I went down and, experiencing some sort of panicked brain freeze, the mental genius who'd winged me decided that it would be a good idea to take me back to their lair like some sort of fucking hunting trophy. Spotting me being dragged back to the van by a Wannabe, instead of coming to my aid like most... normal... people would if they saw one of their own in peril, the Brotherhood retaliated by both knocking out and... disappearing with... Gypsy-Rose's uncle.

Yet again, as you fucking do.

And now, the great love story of Chevy and Gypsy-Rose already relegated to the annuls of history, the Southern Brotherhood and the Aryan – if only they were – Warriors are engaged in... hostage negotiations. 

That is, the Wannabes think they're engaged in hostage negotiations. Me for Uncle Rob. They think it's a fair trade. They also think that it's only a matter of time before the Brotherhood see the light and agree to the swap.

They... think the Brotherhood give a flying fuck about me, a fly-by-nighter who, while useful and considered a 'good sort', isn't a proper member and who... most definitely isn't worth going to war for.

They're... also convinced that Uncle Rob is still alive, that the Brotherhood wouldn't kill a good man in cold blood, and that the only reason they took him in the first place was as a bargaining chip.

And...

They'd be wrong.

On both counts.

The Brotherhood aren't going to come for me, and, having no reason to keep him alive, Uncle Rob is already dead and, I suspect, being digested by an alligator or three.

Just... See how it would be funny if I wasn't in the fucking middle of it?

It's like a synopsis of some red-neck, racist, biker gang love story. Tarantino, I'm sure, would love to direct it and the film studio could give out fake biker tatts to the movie critics as promotional material. 

Being in the wrong place at the wrong time having nothing on it though, I just shouldn't be here.

I shouldn't be... at risk of dying here.

Here.

Of all the exotic places I... could... have met my maker in, right now it's looking as though the Wannabes' cavernous...

Actually, I don't even know what you could call it.

Multi-purpose warehouse?

Seeing as I think they sleep on the top floor, their... All-in-one?

Meth-lab-slash-gator-hide-tanning-studio-slash-bike-work-shop-slash-armory-slash-table-tennis-zone-slash-distillary-slash-sports-bar-slash-prisoner-holding-facility?

Seriously, as it's all of that and more, it's like the place actually... defies... being labelled.

It's big. Hot. So hot, in fact, that I don't know why they waste electricity on the vast number of ceiling fans that run twenty-four-seven without actually achieving fuck all in terms of cooling the air. Chock full of all of their... favourite things. Smelly. Uncomfortable. Although, really, that could just be me given that the rest of the red-neck Wannabes seem more than happy with their space while I've been kept in what I can only imagine is a barely glorified bear cage for the past three days.

What it also happens to be, and I'm fairly confident, given the way most of them walk around smoking all the time, that they're not even aware of this, is a massive fucking explosion just waiting to happen.

First there's the meth lab, then there's the chemicals required to tan the alligator hide, and then, just to mix things up a little, there's the crates of weapons stacked along the back wall.

How the place hasn't already gone up in a ball of flame just amazes me.

While I'd prefer not to be around when it does – and it will, trust me, one of these days one of the idiots will leave a smouldering cigarette butt somewhere that he shouldn't have and... boom! – when the inevitable explosion does take place at least the multiple casualties will just be able to be listed as the work of natural selection.

There's dumb, and then there's... this lot.

And, it's looking more and more likely that I'm going to die here. In a cage. Surrounded by fucking idiots. 

If a fireball doesn't get me then the infection coming from my festering flesh wound will.

I have a fever, lucidity comes and go, my breathing already has a hint of a death rattle to it, even if I could get out of the cage I don't think I'd have the energy to make it very far, and I hurt. I hurt all over. Mosquitoes loving this hovel a hell of a lot more than I do, I'm covered in bites that, as of recently and possibly even for the best, I'm too tired to even scratch. From being cramped in the cage, to the pain coming from the weeping hole in my side, to the constant headache caused by dehydration... My body's shutting down and I don't know for how much longer I'm going to be around for.

The Southern Brotherhood won't come for me, and although IMF would have to be aware of my – lame-ass – predicament by now, I'm not even sure that they'll come for me either. I might be an important commodity to them – I might just as easily... not... be, but needing positives where I can get them, let's just assume for a moment that I am – but, as I'm on an active mission, I'm also on my own and can't count on being extracted. Never mind the fact that, even if a team had been sent to retrieve me, there's no guarantee that they'd actually be able to find the Wannabes'... warehouse... in time. Being such a... small... gang, they've never much been on our radar before and, while I know I'm still in the Everglades somewhere, I have no idea... where... in the Everglades it might actually be..

I'm far from being defeatist in nature, but at the same time let's just say that I'm not holding out much hope here.

I was based in, and checking in from, the Brotherhood's compound, and now I'm... somewhere unknown, an unfortunate victim of a doomed red-neck romance, and...

… Regrets. I've had more than a few.

IMF though, despite having been on and off again tetchy with them for over a year now, isn't, oddly enough, on my list of regrets at all. Sure, my job may – shortly – end up being the death of me, but that, if you ignore the irony overload, is just life. No one lives forever and something, somewhere along the line, is going to take your life. Nowhere in my forward planning did I ever imagine my death taking place in a bear cage while surrounded by a collection of brain dead bikers, but, there you go. Life. It's just full of untold surprises.

Or, in this case. Death. It's just full of untold surprises.

If I hadn't found my way in to IMF, what would have become of me anyway? Agriculture never having been my thing, there was no way I ever could have stayed on the farm. A desk job? I don't think so. While I don't, contrary to the opinion – not wanting to name anyone here, but, well, Luther springs all too readily to mind – of some, necessarily see myself as an adrenaline junkie, but if I had to sit on my ass all day behind a desk I honestly think I would have gone postal decades ago. Service industry? Sadly, I just don't like people... that... much to want to smile blankly at them while shoving fast food over a counter at them or placing their groceries in a bag.

My mother, whenever I was prevaricating over what I wanted to do with my life, used to say that there was always a job out there for everyone and that they just had to find it.

… I've lived a life that's full.

Through IMF I've travelled the world, met new and exciting people who either wanted to kill me or who I had to somehow bring to justice, and I like to think that, in some small way at least, that I've made a difference. That, thanks to my efforts, the world – however momentarily – has been made a better place.

So, no. I don't regret having devoted my career to IMF at all.

I do, however, regret pretty much all of my relationships. Julia, of course, holds a special spot here as she was the poor woman I made the stupendously misguided attempt to... settle down and play happy families with. Hindsight being a complete bitch, it was just about one of the worst, not to mention selfish, things I've ever done. I thought that I did honestly love her and that we were in with a chance of making it at the time, so it's not as though I'd deliberately set out to be an asshole to her. As ideas go though, it really was a stupid one. I don't even know what my biggest mistake even was. Thinking I could hide my true identity from her, or just blithely assuming that she wouldn't have a problem accepting it. That man you love? He's actually a sort of James Bond who constantly puts his life on the line to achieve his goal. It's okay, though. If you're really lucky he'll be home for a couple of nights every second month or so. As for the condition he might come home in? Well, you... are... a doctor.

I also, now that I've got the time to dedicate to being nothing other than brutally honest, regret having put so much effort into convincing myself that, really, it... was... women that I was far more interested in being with. More socially acceptable and certainly not without their own promise of pleasure, they weren't because I was ashamed of liking men or because I was wanting to... cure... myself, they were just, particularly when I was a young agent and trying desperately to fit in, easier. Easier to talk about, easier to bring along on double-dates, and, in general, just a perfect accessory when it came to perfecting the act of just being 'one of the boys'.

At the time it was fun, and there were a few that I even felt feelings akin to love for, but looking back on it all now I can't help but feel as though I was only using them.

Using them, and... kidding myself.

It's not breasts I want, or – at the risk of being completely base here – even just cock, for that matter, it's... unconditional... understanding. I realise now, in the ultimate example of better late than never, that if I could have anything in a relationship it would be both honesty and understanding. There'd be no secrets, it wouldn't be based solely around sex, and, as both parties would be equals, they'd just... understand. Everything. Why we do what we do. Why, sometimes, it gets too much. The nightmares. The dedication, and the refusal to never ever give in.

Will.

I...

I regret not having been able to spend more time with Will.

I regret not having known of his existence before... what happened in Berlin.

I regret not knowing him better.

I regret that he'll never know just how much, in such a short period of time, he's come to mean to me and how, needing something to keep me going, I've been clinging to the memory of our last night together. How, instead of taking himself off to bed after he'd teased me about wanting to inherit my house, he'd simply gone to sleep leaning against me and with my arm draped around his shoulders. He didn't have to, and it's not as though I hadn't been planning to go to bed in order to catch a few hours sleep myself, but he did, and, feeling as comfortable as he clearly was, I just couldn't bring myself to move.

He'd been through so much, yet... He trusted me enough to, for no particular reason that I could think of, spend what was left of the night sleeping against me, and...

It was nothing, a non-event, and deep down I know that I'm trying to make something out of... nothing, but, the memory, it stays with me.

I think of Will sleeping next to me and, for a fleeting moment between the incessant itchiness coming from the mosquito bites or the pain in my side, I'm... happy.

And...

… Then I regret that, too.

Not the moment itself, God no, or even the fact that I know that I'm being pathetic by attaching so much weight to it, but by just thinking about Will in... that... sort of way.

He's my friend and... because I still want what's best for him, I... know... that the foolish thoughts I've been having aren't best for him at all. 

I shouldn't be thinking of him... longingly. 

I shouldn't be thinking of him... in a sexual sense. In fact, wondering what he looks like naked now that he's put on a little weight is just wrong. No. It's more than wrong. It's offensive. And if he ever knew that the thought had so much as crossed my mind he'd be mortified. 

Will, he...

He's my friend, and assuming flying pigs have been cleared for take off at Miami International Airport and I actually survive my encounter with the Wannabes, that's all he ever... can... be.

It...

It's just how it has to be.

So, again, if I do manage to survive this he can fall asleep against me as much as he likes, and I'll continue to offer myself up for the task of surreptitiously throwing popcorn at him to wake him up should he doze off during whatever movie it is that Benji's decided we have to see – and, seeing as this is something he did actually do during the long awaited viewing of Benji's beloved Star Trek movie, at least I know that if I end up dying here I'll do so safe in the knowledge that I'd managed to protect Benji from the fact that his friend had found his movie so riveting that it had put him to sleep – and... I'll just try to be there for him as a friend.

Just his... platonic... friend.

Regrets.

Oh yeah. I've had a fucking few, alright.

“Hey! Old Snake Eyes or whatever it was ya was callin' yourself, looks like ya got cause to be singin' after all!”

More annoyed at the red-neck's return than I am... captivated... by just whatever it is he's raving on about, I'm still in the process of opening my eyes and forcing myself to look up at him when, with a truly shit-eating grin, he throws a bucket of water over me and, seeing as I'm thinking it has to be his number-one party trick, gives my cage another of his patented bone-rattling kicks. The water being, like everything in this dump, both warmish and dirty, I don't even want to think about where he might have collected it from and, for fear of getting some in my mouth, don't reply.

“Aw. Come on, man,” he mutters, his piggy face contorting in what I think may well be a pout of some description. “Ya should be singing' now instead of just lookin' at me like a wet dog. Ya brothers, they've finally come to their senses and brought Uncle Rob back to us! And... Boy-oh-boy...” Pausing, he lets rip with an ear shattering wolf-whistle and rubs the palm of his hand across his leather covered crotch. “I'm tellin' ya, they ain't half got a hot chick with them. I don't even care if she is the missus of one them Brotherhood scum as I'd still give her one.”

Wiping the back of my hand across my mouth, I look up at the red-neck and, although it causes every muscle in my body to issue forth with an immediate complaint, shrug. “One... what, exactly?” I query, nearly gagging as, despite my best efforts, a droplet of water slides into the corner of my mouth. “One... flea? Her very own gator? A... ride on your... joystick?”

“A ride of her life, more like!” the red-neck cackles far too joyously as, heeding the shouted order to 'get the fuck on with it' from a fellow Wannabe by the main door, he pulls a key out of his pocket and unlocks the cage. “The bitch wouldn't even know what hit her,” he continues with, this time, a full on grope of his crotch before reaching into the cage and closing his hand around my upper arm. Dragging me out, he throws me down on to the concrete floor and, seeing as this is the first time I've been out of the cage for something like three days now, the shock of my heavy landing nearly causes me to vomit.

The Brotherhood are here with Uncle Rob?

I...

I don't get it.

They can't be.

Uncle Rob has to be dead and... this can't be what it seems to the Wannabes at all.

ATF? Maybe IMF handed the case over to ATF. They're always active in this neck of the woods and, going on their considerable cache of weapons, they'd have to be more aware of the gang's affairs than we were.

Either way, whoever it is the... hot chick... outside belongs to, I should get my game face on and just... go along for the ride.

Wherever it is that it might end up taking me.

“Time to get a fuckin' move on,” the red-neck announces with enough glee in his voice to make me think he's only one very small step off starting a whoopin' and a hollerin' as, grabbing me by the back of my t-shirt, he hauls me to my feet and propels me towards the door. “Can't say that I'm gonna miss ya,” he adds as, having been just a bit too forceful of his manhandling of me, I very nearly crash into the truly tasteful Swastika flag that's hanging to the left of the door.

“You know, there's nothing that makes a... hovel... a home more than it's own Swastika,” I comment, deliberately leaning close and wiping my filthy face on the flag.

“It's own... what now?” the red-neck grunts as he gives me a blank – the-lights-are-on-but-no-one's-home – look. “What are ya talkin' about now?”

“The flag? It's a Nazi... Actually, you know what, just forget I ever said anything.”

“I still think ya just happen to be crazy,” he mutters, frowning as he opens the door and, with absolutely no fanfare whatsoever, shoves me through it. “But, whatever. Ya ain't gonna be my problem for much longer as, look... Ya seem to mean so much to the Brotherhood bastards that they've sent in the heavies to make the trade.”

“The... heavies?” It being my turn to be confused, I give the red-neck a blank look of my own before looking across the large patch of dead grass that makes up the Wannabes' yard and squinting at the number plate of the glossy black Chevrolet Avalanche that's parked just inside the fortress-like gate.

Ah.

Okay.

Got it, now.

The Avalanche has Alabama plates, which means whoever it is that's in it is pretending to be from the Southern Brotherhood's... head office, so to speak.

Unless, of course, it really is the Brotherhood, and they really... are... going to trade the Wannabes' Uncle Rob for me.

But...

Surely not?

“Ya can't just be some sorta small fish after all,” the red-neck states with what may well be a hint of duly impressed awe in his voice. “Sendin' in the big boys from Alabama. I mean, la-di-da.”

“Jealousy's a curse, I hope you know,” I retort, stumbling as the red-neck shoves me in the back to get me moving. Noticing for the first time the... hot chick, all long black leather-clad legs and waves of long dark brown hair, as she sits astride a gleaming Harley Davidson and keeps an assault rifle trained on the red-neck as he walks me over, I blink at what I can see of her face beneath her sunglasses, and...

It can't be.

It just can't.

I mean, just because she looks like Jane Carter doesn't mean she... is... Jane Carter.

Why would Jane be here?

Then again, why would the Brotherhood have a... chick... escort?

Maybe...

Maybe I'm hallucinating and none of this is real at all.

Jane?

So. Okay. If I'm dreaming and my subconscious has Jane here to rescue me, then... That would mean, in the Avalanche there would be...

The passenger side door of the Avalanche opening as though on cue, another... vaguely familiar face half covered by sunglasses and a black baseball cap, materialises and trains his rifle on what has to be a lurking Wannabe to the right.

Benji?

Which surely would have to mean that sitting behind the steering wheel is...

Will?

Will's here?

Will, who promised to be there for me if I needed him?

Will, who should be either back at HQ or in my living room and buried under a mound of paperwork?

The driver's side door opening and a man, imposing looking in his black leathers despite his slight stature, climbing out, I stare at him through wide eyes, and...

… See it.

I see what it is I'm looking for.

I see... Will.

Will's here.

For me.

He's here... for me.

Oh dear God...

My knees suddenly buckling under me, I hit the dusty ground and lie there winded as, unimpressed with my clumsiness, the red-neck grunts a few expletive laden insults and kicks me in the ribs.

“Hey! Keep that up and you'll be getting yours back with an extra hole between the eyes,” an achingly familiar voice shouts commandingly as I'm hauled once again to my feet.

“Ya'll seen ours now, so it's time ya showed us Rob,” the red-neck yells back as he pulls his Smith & Wesson out from the pocket of his trousers and presses it against the side of my neck. “Fair's fair and all of that.”

“Just don't think I won't follow through with my threat, as, rough him up again and you'll get to see for yourself that I don't make idle threats,” Will retorts as, nodding to Jane to keep her rifle on the red-neck, he steps back and opens the Avalanche's back door.

“Rob for... Old Snake Eyes, here. A deal's a deal.”

“A deal's a deal,” Will repeats, reaching into the backseat and dragging out a gagged and bound man that, somewhat to my disbelief, I actually recognise as the Wannabes' Uncle Rob.

How?

I...

I don't...

Surely you can't be telling me that... a field agent, a tech expert, and an... analyst, just marched in to the Brotherhood's compound and... retrieved... Uncle Rob? Having spent three weeks in that compound, I know how hard it is for a fully-fledged member to pass all the security checks, let alone – and I'm deliberately not counting the Wannabes' attack here as, stealth not being a word in their vocabulary, they just blew a hole in the fence – for anyone else managing to get in to the place.

So...

How?

Reaching the Avalanche, I've barely had time to try for one last act of defiance by dragging myself up to my full height when, with one almighty shove, I'm sent flying towards Will. Somehow, and this is no mean feat seeing as he's got one hand clutched tightly around Rob's arm, he manages to stop me from falling and, without even looking at me, bundles me unceremoniously into the backseat of the Avalanche.

“Good riddance, I say,” the red-neck grunts as, not waiting for instructions, he snatches the unconscious looking Rob away from Will and, it clearly being his... trademark... move, gives the wheel of the Avalanche a kick. “Now, get the fuck off my property before I call this truce over!” he adds, slinging his arm around Rob's slumped shoulders as he casts one last lingering leer over Jane. “If y'all got no use for her though, she sure could stay.”

“And make you kick your favourite gator out of the bed?” Jane drawls as, slinging her rifle back over her shoulder, she kicks the Harley into life. “I don't think so.”

“And there's your answer,” Will mutters flatly as he gestures at Benji to get back into the Avalanche before slamming my door shut and starting to climb behind the driver's seat. “As I'd only be lying if I said this had been a pleasure,” he adds, fixing the red-neck with one last look before, with a shrug, pulling his door shut and starting the ignition. He then waits until Jane, who, as her parting gift to her would be suitor, executes a truly impressive looking wheelie and throws up a cloud of dust that has him spluttering like an asthmatic, has shot out the gate before putting the Avalanche into reverse and, with a bit of tyre spinning of his own, backing out on to the road.

“So? What did you think of that, huh?” Benji announces as, slapping Will on the shoulder, he spins around to beam at me. “Some rescue, yeah?”

Although I open my mouth in anticipation of offering up some sort of reply to Benji, nothing comes out, and, it all suddenly adding up to get the better of me, instead of being able to congratulate everyone I...

… Just pass out cold.

~*~*~*~


	16. Chapter 16

~*~*~*~

Waking to the sound of Benji and Jane bickering good naturedly over tattoos of all things, I keep – playing dead – my eyes closed and, not wanting to rush straight back in to reality and all that it entails, just let their voices wash over me. I know, from the hardness of the mattress I'm lying on and the familiar, yet both indescribable and the same the world over, smell, that I have to be in a hospital bed somewhere and the relief I feel at this is just immeasurable. 

Having succumbed to my fever pretty much the second after I'd been so spectacularly rescued from the Wannabes, I don't remember much of the past however many hours and really wouldn't have a clue where, generic 'hospital' aside, it is that they've taken to me. Consciousness coming and going – with an emphasis here on... going – I can dimly remember the rescue itself, the low, indecipherable murmur of hazy, doctor and nurse shaped people as they tendered to me, and... A flight. I can remember waking up at some point and knowing, even before I'd opened my eyes, that I was on a flight. And that, in a reversal of the position we'd been in during the last flight we'd had together, my head was resting on Will's shoulder as his arm curled warmly around my waist and hugged me against him. Having ditched all the leather of his Brotherhood disguise, he was wearing a soft woollen turtle-neck and I remember thinking, as I slid contently back into unconsciousness, that he smelt like fabric softener.

That, and I'd quite possibly never felt so blessed in my life.

Rescued.

Safe.

… Cared for. 

And now I'm here, wherever here is, listening to two members of my rescue party conduct a conversation about tattoos.

“And you can stop looking at me like that, too!”

“Like what, Benji? Just... How am I looking at you?”

“Like you don't believe me, that's how!”

“I never said...”

“You didn't have to. I can see it in your face. You think that the reason I wouldn't get a tattoo is because of the pain, and... And that's not the case at all!”

“So you keep saying.”

“It's because I'd never be able to settle on the design.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I just wouldn't. I mean, sure, the Bat Logo is neat, but how could I choose that over the Star Fleet emblem? Or... Not because I'm a brand whore but because it was the computer I taught myself to hack on, what about the Apple logo? Then there's Paddington Bear, of course. I grew up with Paddington and still have the one my grandparents gave me for my second birthday. So... Uh... You see? That's why I could never get a tattoo. Having to decide would... just break my brain.”

“I don't know about that. You could always just get a full back tatt that encompasses everything. That'd save your dilemma, wouldn't it?”

“Uh... A full back tatt? I... I don't know about that. I mean, I was thinking something.. small, like... maybe on my shoulder...”

“It's okay, Benji! At the risk of making you think I'm stealing your lines, stop looking at me like that... Seriously. It was a joke. If you don't want to get a tattoo then that's entirely up to you. I can tell you that they don't hurt, but...”

“How? Oh my God! Do you have one?”

“I... might.”

“You do! Oh my God, you do. Why didn't I already know that?”

“Maybe because it's none of your business?”

“Where is it?”

“Somewhere you'll never see it.”

“Fine. I'll just ask Trev...”

“And, knowing full well that he'd never get to see it again if he said anything, he won't tell you.”

“Can you at least tell me what it is?”

“Nope.”

“Not even a clue?”

“It's not even in the same ballpark as those hideous, racist and red-neck fake ones we had to wear in Florida. How's that? Will that do you?”

“You're really not going to tell me?”

“I'm really not going to tell you.”

“Well, you're no fun.”

“I think the guy who did the tattoo for me would disagree with you there.”

Sighing in disappointment tinged exasperation, Benji takes a seat on the side of bed and, without thinking, leans back and places his hand directly on to my thigh. Now, numb from either the lingering effects of anaesthetic or from having been pumped full of painkillers, I barely feel this but, knowing that I've got to fully rejoin the land of the living at some point, I groan loudly and, just as I'd hoped it would, this causes Benji to both gasp in shock and stumble immediately to his feet.

“I... Shit! I'm sorry, Ethan. I...”

“You could have just asked if you wanted to check to see whether I was still alive or not, instead of just... going the grope,” I interrupt as, opening my eyes, I slowly push myself up into a half-sitting position. “Seriously, Benji, I didn't know you cared in quite... that... sort of way.”

“What? I...” His eyes almost bugging out of his head, Benji backs away from the bed and shoots a panicked look at Jane as, catching my gaze, she struggles not to laugh. “Ethan... I... Oh God. Grope you? I never...”

“Chill, Benji,” Jane declares as, no longer able to fight it, she gives in to laugher. “Lazarus over there is pulling your leg. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if he's been awake for ages and just hasn't been letting on.”

“If I ask nicely will you tell me the location of your tattoo?” I query, doing my best to affect an innocent expression, but which, given that the effort of sitting up has left me feeling all woozy, probably just makes me look like I'm simple.

“Not even if you ask nicely,” Jane retorts with another laugh as, taking pity on Benji, she walks over to him and slings her arm around his shoulder. “Hey! Cheer up. He has to be okay if he's teasing us already.”

“Must be all the TLC I've been getting,” I murmur, glancing around the room and noting, with no great surprise, that I actually recognise it from all the previous visits I've had to it. Someone clearly having once told those in charge of the IMF infirmary that varying tones of blue are the way to go to encourage healing, everything from the walls and soft furnishings to the custom built frame around the flat screen television set mounted on the wall directly in front of the bed is in a blue of some description and to simply call it uninspiring would actually be doing it a kindness. The thing is though, even when they go in for a revamp, they still always just end up doing it in blue again and I can only think that someone in power somewhere has to... really... like it. 

“The infirmary?” I add, wincing as I make the foolish mistake of lifting up the bedding and giving the area around my wound a gentle poke. “Was I closer to death than I ever thought I was, or did you all just want to sleep in your own beds tonight?”

“Not wanting to be anywhere near the Everglades when it kicked off,” Jane replies as she shifts away from Benji and takes a seat in the chair next to the bed, “we all just agreed that, seeing as we were going to have to be on the move anyway, that we may as well just come straight back to D.C.. If you'd needed more urgent attention we'd have taken you somewhere closer, but, as you looked as though you were going to make it, we just pushed on.”

“Oh...” I suspect I'm about to ask the obvious here, but, oh well. “Kicked off?” I mutter. “What are you talking about?”

“Remember that skirmish between the Aryan Warriors and the Southern Brotherhood, the one that got you in this mess in the first place?” Benji states as, having finally accepted that I had actually only been teasing him, he moves closer to the bed. “Well, our crystal ball told us that the one that was going to occur shortly after we'd hauled your arse out of there was going to make it, Round One, look like a storm in a teacup.”

“Sorry... What? I don't understand. Somehow, and you're going to have to explain this to me when I'm feeling a bit more with it, you managed to convince the Brotherhood to give up... Uncle Rob, who, for what it's worth, I was sure had to be dead, and...”

“Oh, we're pretty sure he's dead, too. Or, if he wasn't at the time, then he'd have to be now,” Jane replies, stretching her legs out in front of her as she tries, I suspect futilely, to make herself comfortable in the infirmary's notoriously uncomfortable visitor's chair.

“But...” While I'm only too happy to put it down to being a result of whatever medication it is that I'm on, I'm confused over what they're both getting at here and hope that they don't take too long to get to the point.

“It wasn't Rob,” Benji explains helpfully. “The man we handed over to the Warriors? He wasn't Rob.”

“Then...” Again with asking the obvious. “Who was he?”

“Uncle Lester.”

“Uncle... Lester? Who the fuck is Uncle Lester?”

“Rob's brother, of course,” Jane responds as, giving up on the chair, she stands up and goes over to lean against the wall by the window. “Same height and weight, and...”

“With the help of a mask expertly made by yours truly, a dead ringer for Rob!” Benji interjects with a happy, possibly even self-satisfied smile. “It... Oh my God, Ethan, it was... amazing! Knowing that Rob was either dead already or that the Brotherhood wasn't going to give him up, we... just picked Lester up from the street when he was coming out of the liquor store, and... after stuffing him full of sedatives and slapping the mask on him, we had our trade!”

“It's also why we had to get the hell straight out of there,” Jane adds with a smug smile of her own. “The drugs would have started to wear off, Lester would have pulled the mask of, and...”

“Things would have... kicked off,” I finish with a low, impressed whistle. “That... Your plan. It was, as you just said, Benji, amazing. The Brotherhood were left out of it, the Wannabes got what they thought they wanted, and...”

“When they realised that they'd been played, they stormed straight around to the Brotherhood's compound and, right under the noses of both the ATF and the FBI, who, you know, we... may... have tipped off, they just went at it,” Jane states, glancing across at Benji and sharing a triumphant look with him. “From what we've heard so far, it was both messy and... bloody. As I suspect you already know, the Brotherhood had considerable bomb making equipment at their compound and, yeah, let's just say none of them, those of them that are still amongst the living, that is, are going to have the freedom to blow anything up for the next few decades.”

“And... It wasn't our idea,” Benji murmurs, “it was Will's. All of it. From forming the team and going off on our own, to... coming up with the plan to put a mask on Lester, it was all down to Will. He... He's...”

“Brilliant?” I offer quietly as, wondering where he is, I look instinctively towards the door, as though somehow, by the sheer power of hope alone, he'll suddenly walk through it.

“Brilliant,” Benji repeats with a nod. “And... Amazing. He just wasn't going to take no for an answer and, I suspect, would have just gone in on his own if we hadn't put our hands up to go with him. You... You should have seen him. Focussed, completely in charge, and, yeah, just brilliant...” Trailing off, he smiles and gives me a cunning look. “Actually, all in all, I think we made for a damn fine team and, once you're recovered of course, I reckon we'd be unstoppable.”

“Team? Uh... Have I missed something here?” I query, hiding the fact that my immediate response to this idea is one of both interest and, dare I say it, pleasure, behind a – very – slow shake of my head. “Jane?”

“While I'm not going to confirm nor deny that the idea may have been something Benji and I have discussed between ourselves,” Jane replies as, shrugging, she walks back over to the bed, “what I can say is... and, feel free to correct me if you think I'm wrong here, but, Ethan, I think even you'd have to agree that your... lone wolf... days are over, that... things are just better when you're surrounded by others that you trust and know that you can rely on. Just... Think about it, yeah? It doesn't have to be us, but... Just give some thought to being part of a team again...”

“I...” Damn it. Talk about feeling as though I've been put on the spot. “I don't know what to say...”

“That doesn't sound like you,” Will announces from the doorway as, looking as pleased to see him as I instantly feel just by hearing the sound of his voice, Benji and Jane immediately begin to walk over to him. “Ethan? Don't tell me you received a bigger knock to the head than we're aware of?”

“No knock to the head,” Jane mutters, trailing her fingers along Will's arm as, linking her elbow around Benji's, she continues heading towards the door. “Just his usual, stubborn self. But... Now that you're here, he's all yours. Come on, Benji. As I'm starving I'm going to let you buy me a doughnut from the cafeteria.”

“So long as you get your... source... to provide us with the good coffee, it's a date! Uh... Not... Not that I meant that it was a... date, date. I mean...”

“Anyone ever tell you that talk too much?”

“Uh... My parents... My sister... A lot of my friends have been known to say it as well...”

“So... Pretty much anyone that's ever met you?”

“Pretty much.”

A fond smile lighting up Will's tired face, he watches Benji and Jane disappear from the room before walking around the bed and trying his luck in taking a seat in the chair. “Whatever it was they might have said,” he murmurs, “don't believe them as they were invaluable. If they hadn't been there to... hold my hand... you... I hate to say it, but you'd probably still be there...”

“While they were too busy sharing your brilliance with me to bang their own drums, I have no doubt that they more than pulled their weight and that I'm... actually, we're... lucky to have them both,” I reply as I slowly, and with far more effort than I want to own up to having to use, turn to better face Will. “Are you okay there? Speaking from experience here, I know that that chair is pretty horrible to sit on, and...”

“It's fine,” Will interjects, his expression clouding over as he glances towards the window. “Having been... taught... the... uh... true meaning of discomfort, this chair in comparison is positively comfortable,” he adds faintly. “So... You don't need to worry about me, I'm fine. But...” Taking a deep breath, he turns back around to face me and tries his hardest to... divert my attention from both his... slip of the tongue... and obvious exhaustion with a smile. “What about you? You're the one who's all banged up and stuck in a hospital bed for, and we're talking the bare minimum here, the next two nights.”

“Compared to where I was a couple of hours ago now, I'm just peachy,” I reply, looking at Will and wishing that I had the energy to get out of bed and hug him. He both looks and seems, although he's trying to hide it behind a smile, bone weary and, despite my pleasure at having him here with me, I just hate seeing him like this. As for his 'don't worry about me' comment? That, although I'm hardly going to come out and tell him this, is unlikely to ever going to happen. From the moment I identified him at that damn club close to two months ago now, I've worried about him in one form or another and, knowing him now like I do, I doubt anything is ever going to change that. He could turn his back on IMF, move halfway around the world and either live in a monastery or open up his own confectionery store, and... I think I'd still worry about him. He just, and I know it's only because I care so deeply about him, brings it out in me. I didn't know him before and couldn't protect him, but I know him now and... want... to be able to, if not look after him, then at the very least, look... out for him.

“You don't... look... peachy,” Will replies, giving me a dubious look as, unable to help himself, he leans forward and smooths the bedding down flat around me. “Mind you, compared to what you looked like earlier I've got to say you do actually look vastly improved. Not quite so... near death, or...”

“Like shit?” I offer with a small shrug. “You can say that, you know. While the one thing their massive all-in-one warehouse seemed to be lacking was a mirror, I... felt like shit, so, hey, it only stands to reason that I would have looked like it too.”

“If you must know, like... shit, doesn't even really begin to come close to covering it,” Will responds as, the bedding now to his liking, he closes his hand around mine and squeezes it. “When you passed out in the back of that horrid SUV thing I... I thought... Uh... Never mind. All's well that ends well and all that.”

“And, thanks to you, it ended... very... well,” I reply, squeezing his hand back. “Just... Thank you. Benji and Jane are so in awe of your... planning skills... that they're already muttering about wanting us to... join forces and form a team. Why they'd want me, however, is anyone's guess as it's not exactly as though I added anything to the mix or...”

“Any team would want you, Ethan,” Will interjects in a quiet, plain tone, “and I only did what I needed to do to complete the mission. Anyone could have done it.”

“Maybe they could have, but you were the one who took the initiative and ran with it,” I retort, really not liking how exhausted and lifeless Will seems and wishing there was something, anything even, that I could do to get him to perk up a little. “You... stepped in as team leader and got the job done. Come on, Will. What's the matter? Ignoring the very vested interest I have here in my own continued existence, you did a brilliant job and should be proud of yourself. I... I don't know if you've even thought about it, but if you did ever want to return to field work, any team would be lucky to have you.”

“I... I only did what I had to.”

“I disagree, but, even so... What you did do, you did brilliantly.”

“And I still say that's only because I had to,” Will murmurs with a sigh. “I had to do whatever I could to get you back, and that... That's the end of it.”

“It's only the end of it if that's what you want it to be,” I reply as, stifling a yawn, a sudden wave of tiredness washes over me. “Benji and Jane think you did brilliantly, speaking for myself I'm a... huge... fan of your actions, and... if you ever wanted to return to field work, you could.”

“You say that without having caught any of the lecture I just copped from the Secretary,” Will replies as, proving that yawning can indeed be considered contagious, he yawns himself and, all the time keeping a hold on my hand, settles back in the chair. “Just... I'm having a great year, I really am,” he continues in a far lighter tone than he'd been using and, I suspect, making a very deliberate bid to change the subject. “First there was... dying... in Berlin, then there was... what followed, and now... Now I'm under threat of being disavowed. Disavowed! I don't even have so much a single black mark on my file, and now I'm being threatened with being booted out on my ass!”

“It's over-rated, you know,” I murmur as, both yawning again and struggling to keep my eyes open, I slide down the mattress and rest my head on the pillow. “Being disavowed... Having been there, done that on a number of occasions now, as threats go it really is quite useless.”

“Oddly enough, that's what I thought you'd say,” he murmurs, “and, as you really do have so much experience in the matter, I'll take your word for it and won't immediately start looking for a new job. Now... As it's pretty obvious you need it, how about getting some sleep, yeah?”

“You'll...” Not wanting to put any pressure on him, I probably shouldn't even be saying this, but... “You'll stay?”

“Of course I'll stay,” Will replies, leaning over and planting a very soft kiss on my cheek that, despite the comfortable numbness of my body I swear I can feel all the way down to the tips of my toes. “Just... Where else am I going to go?”

~*~*~*~


	17. Chapter 17

~*~*~*~

Sensing, as opposed to actually hearing Will's arrival in the doorway, I open my eyes and push back against the mound of pillows until I'm sitting a little more upright. “Hey there...”

“I... I'm sorry,” Will murmurs as, looking dismayed, he hesitates over walking fully into the bedroom. “I didn't know you were asleep and apologise for...”

“I wasn't asleep. I was just... resting my eyes,” I respond, gesturing him into the room. Holding an apple, bottle of water, and a Mars Bar – the same items, I can't help but remember, he had for breakfast that morning in Paris when he finally started to talk – in his hands, I imagine he'd been coming to deliver me a snack and now, thinking that he's woken me, he doesn't quite know what to do. “Look.” I pick up the iPad from off my lap and hold it out to him so that he can see the news site on it. “The screen hadn't even switched off.”

“If you need your rest though, I... I shouldn't be bothering you and should just go,” Will replies, taking a step backwards. “I... Again, I'm sorry. I thought you might have liked something to eat, but...”

“While I'm not particularly hungry I can, as the doctor made quite a point of telling me, always do with more water,” I interject, gesturing again for him to come and join me. “What I could also do with is some company, so, please... Come in. The iPad can only offer me so much, and I use the word lightly here, entertainment.”

Shrugging, Will walks over to the bedside table and, after handing me the water, places the apple and the chocolate bar down on to it. “Still think it would have to offer you more entertainment value than I could,” he mutters as, looking more miserable by the second, he walks over to the window and fusses – pointlessly, if you ask me – with the drapes. “You still need to rest, Ethan. Remember, you were only allowed to go home on the proviso that you stayed in bed, and I... I think I probably just need to leave you in peace.” 

“I'm in bed, have no plans, unless, that is, you leave and I have to drag my ass downstairs in order to follow you, on going anywhere, and... I want you to stay,” I state as, taking in the dejected slump of Will's shoulders, I begin to wonder what his reaction would be if I just got out of bed and went over to him. As I'm not bed bound and feel better, albeit still weak, than I have in days, I could. I could get up and go to Will, but, just call it my sixth sense stepping in to save the moment, I don't know if he'd actually appreciate it. There's something up with him, that much is a given, but I just don't know what. Three days have passed since he rescued me from the Everglades, yet while I'm recovering he seems to be somehow going backwards. He's pale, constantly tired looking, and... despite all the time he's spending in my company he's not really saying anything. Nothing of note, at any rate. He asks about my health, is forever offering to get me anything that I might want, makes small talk about the weather and what he's picked up at HQ during the few hours he's been spending there each day, but that's about it. He won't talk about what happened in the Everglades or what he got up to during the three weeks that I was away, and, damn it, I'm worried about him.

“Why?” Will whispers, directing his heart-breakingly simple question to the window. “I... Surely I'm just annoying you.”

“Why?” I repeat, deliberately ignoring his last statement because I want to get him to talk to me, not just deliver a rousing lecture on why I'm adamant that he's better than he's clearly convinced himself he is. “That's easy. I'd like some company, I like... you, and... you're here. I also think you're tired and could probably do with some rest yourself. So... Come on, Will. Come and sit on the bed with me.”

Sighing, Will turns around and gives me a troubled look as he leans his back against the wall. “I... I am tired,” he confesses quietly.

“Not sleeping?”

“Not a lot, no.”

“Why didn't you say something?” I query, forcing a smirk to tug on my lips as I try to lighten the moment. “I mean, I've got a guaranteed way to put you to sleep.”

“I don't want to take anything,” Will replies as, not knowing what it is I've got to smirk about, a small frown crosses his face.

“Oh, I wasn't going to offer you a pill. No. I was just going to suggest that you watch that Star Trek movie of Benji's again. Let's face it, it did a good job of sending you off to sleep last time.”

“Oh God, don't!” Will retorts as, just as I'd hoped it would, my smart ass response causes him to smile. “Just... Don't even joke about that as Benji's never to know that I dozed off during the damn thing! I don't think I've told you this before, but, worried that he might try to have a discussion with me about it, I actually watched it again the following day.”

“Without falling asleep again?”

“No! That's the thing. It put me to sleep... again. Luckily it was in a different spot that time though, so... Although not as a whole or in one sitting, I have at least seen the entire movie.”

“So there you go. I was right after all and, if you're really having trouble sleeping, all you need to do is pop on Benji's movie,” I murmur, shifting into the middle of the bed and patting the mattress next to me. “Now... Come on. If you're good and come and sit me with I'll even give you the Mars Bar.”

“You're enticing me with chocolate now?” Will mutters as, despite appearing bemused by the thought, he begins to walk slowly over towards the bed. “What next? Come in to my parlour, said the spider to fly?”

“You're already in my... parlour, and...” I pick up the apple and hold it out towards him. “Why would I want to trap you in my web and... eat you... when I've got an apple?”

“Anyone ever tell you that you're, well, a little... weird?” Will queries with both a smile and a quick shake of his head as, reaching the bed, he sits himself down by my feet.

“Does... just about everyone I've ever met... count as an answer to that?”

“It does, actually.”

Returning the apple to the bedside table, I make myself comfortable against the pillows and, to Will's obvious unease, slowly look him up and down. He looks tired, worried, if not downright anxious, and I've got to know why. “What's the matter, Will?” I murmur gently as, either unable or unwilling to hold my gaze, he looks down at his hands that are resting limply on his lap. “Why are you so tired?”

“I... I'm fine.”

“You're clearly not, and I'm worried about you. You're here, but at the same time you're... not here at all.”

“You don't need to worry about me. I... Really, Ethan, I'm fine. Just... Why wouldn't I be?”

“That's what I'm trying to find out. You haven't been the same since you hauled my ass out of swamp territory and, although I want to help you, not knowing the reason behind it means that I don't know where to start.”

“I'm fine,” Will repeats flatly. “Everything's... fine. I'm as... tolerated... at work as I've always been, the psychiatrist doesn't want to see me again, I'm engrossed in looking for somewhere to live, and... things are just great.”

“Great, huh?”

“Fabulous. Fantastic. Marvellous. Wonderful.”

“Thanks for that, Mr Thesaurus,” I mutter as, accepting that this particular line of... inquiry... isn't likely to get me anywhere, I decide to change direction. “Hey, Benji finally let it slip that he's been studying to take the field exam. If he'd mentioned it to me three months ago I probably would have just laughed at him, but now, now I think he's on to something and wouldn't hesitate to have him out in the field with me.”

“Benji will make an excellent agent,” Will replies as he places his palms flat on the mattress behind him and leans back to stare at the ceiling. “I suspect there'll be a bunch of the petty minded fools that won't want to work with him because they'll just see him as a... tech-geek, but...”

“That's their loss.”

“Exactly.”

“What about you?”

“What... about... me?”

“Jane and Benji's spot of wishful thinking in the infirmary,” I murmur, “you know, the one about the four of us making up a team... What do you think of that idea?”

“I... I haven't thought about it at all,” Will replies. “Why would I? It... You're right. It's just wishful thinking on their parts. You, Jane and Benji, I'm sure you could find someone else to complete the team for you.”

“They don't want anyone else, they want you...”

“And... You're actually entertaining the idea?” he mutters, shooting me a look of disbelief.

“Why not? We all get on well, have worked together under... random, if not extreme, circumstances, and... Look. I'm not saying I've thought about it any great detail either, or even that I think it's actually viable, but... Hey. I've heard worse ideas, okay.” Pausing, I lean forward and lightly touch Will on the arm. “What about you though? What do...”

“I've already told you,” Will interrupts, jerking his arm away and shifting further along the bed, “I haven't thought about it at all, so... Why ask again?”

“That wasn't what I was going to ask,” I reply as, sighing, I flop back against the pillows.

“No?”

“No... What I'd been going to ask is this... What do... you... want, Will? I'm not talking about about the... mythical... team here, or what it is you're looking for in the perfect house, just... What do you want? Twelve months from now, what would you like your life to consist of?”

“I...” Sitting up, Will returns his hands to his lap and once again gazes down at them as though he doesn't know where else to look. “Would you believe no-one's actually asked me that before?” he whispers. “The Director just expected me to return to the analysts' section when I was ready, the psychiatrist had never met anyone quite like me before and just turned the... softly-softly... approach into a pointless, time-wasting art form, and... You and the others, you've just given me all the time, space and... reassurance... to do my own thing, but...”

“No-one's ever taken the time to ask just what it is you actually want,” I finish. “What about you, though? Is it something you've given some thought to?”

Nodding, Will cups his face in his palms and sighs. “What I want, I... I can't have...”

“What do you mean you can't have?” I query as, unable to take it a second longer, I throw back the covers and crawl over to Will. “Come on,” I add, swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress and draping my arm around his shoulders. “As I already know there isn't a damn thing you can't do if you put your mind to it, whatever it is you want, Will, I'm sure you can achieve it.”

“Not... this... I can't,” he mumbles, squirming free of my arm and jumping to his feet. “Ethan, please... I've already said too much.”

“Actually, you haven't said anywhere near enough,” I counter, making no attempt to disguise my disappointment at his reaction to my touch. “Will? If it's returning to field work that you...”

“It's not that,” he interrupts, wrapping his arms around his torso as he goes back to stand by the window. “I've thought about going back to field work and, yes, at some point I do think it's what I want. I can't let... this... hold me in the office forever and think I... I still have enough to offer a team.”

“Of course you have more than enough to offer a team,” I reply, “and, again, I'm not against the idea of this... mythical... team consisting of the four of us getting off the ground at all. The Secretary and his idle, scaremongering threat of disavowing you is already a thing of the past, so... If it's field work you want, you can have it. Whenever you feel ready for it, it'll be there waiting for you.”

“It's not field work,” Will murmurs as, his eyes suddenly welling with tears, he blinks rapidly and turns to face the window. “Please... Just let it drop. I never should have said...”

“I can't let it drop,” I state, getting, with difficulty, to my feet and walking over to stand behind Will. “Not when it's clearly causing you much anguish and, I suspect, stopping you from sleeping. Maybe... If you'll just tell me what it is you want, maybe it's something I could even help you with.”

“Ethan, please...”

“Come on, Will. I hate seeing you like this and want to help.”

“Then... Just forget I ever said anything and let it drop.”

“I can't. I'm sorry, but I can't just let this go. You're hurting, and it... It's making me feel helpless.”

“I... Damn it, Ethan! You... You're not helping!”

Taken aback by the vehemence in his voice, I quite literally feel as though the wind has been knocked out of my sails and just want the ground to open up and swallow me. I want to help Will, so, what do I do, I push him into a corner and only add to his distress. “I... I'm sorry. You're right. I shouldn't be pushing you.”

“It's okay,” Will whispers as he takes a shaky sounding breath and lets his arms hang limply by his sides. “It... It's not your fault that I feel this way.” 

“I still shouldn't have...”

“You... It... Oh God, Ethan,” he exclaims breathlessly as the words suddenly fall out of his mouth in a rush. “Can't you see that... That it's you that I want, you that I... can't have...”

“I...” Just... Where one earth did... that... come from? And... Why, especially as it's something I'd like to sing from the rooftops, is it causing Will so much anguish? “Will?” Lifting up my hands, I waft them over his back but, still unsure as to just what it is that's going on here, stop short of actually touching him.

“It's okay. You don't have to say anything,” Will sighs. “I know that I've made a fool of myself and that you're probably horrified, but... You asked, and I... I just gave up. You wanted to know and I told you. So... There you have it. Now you know. I'm so... fucked-in-the-head... that I've developed some sort of crush or... unhealthy bond with you and...”

“Is that what you honestly think it is?” I interrupt as, giving up myself, I rest my hands down on his shoulders. “An... unhealthy bond?”

… Because, if it is, it's one we just happen to share.

“No. I...” Will sighs again and leans back a little into my touch. “Logic tries to tell me that I shouldn't, that it's probably just a case of some sort of Stockholm-Syndrome type over-reliance, but I... I still can't shake it. These past three weeks, I've missed you. I've... coped without you, but I've missed you. Regardless of how hard I tell myself that I'm only being stupid, that... there's something wrong with me for even thinking it, what I want in twelve months time is... to still be with you. I know you won't want me like... that, but I... I'll take you in my life anyway that I can get you...”

“And that, William, is exactly how I feel about you,” I murmur, sliding my arms around his waist and, even as he stiffens in shock, hugging him to me. “What's more, you put it pretty much perfectly, too. You're incredibly special to me and I want you in my life in whatever way that I can have you. Team mate, friend, or... partner. I've been fighting it, because, like you, logic wants to convince me that it's... wrong... for some reason, but... It doesn't have to be, and even if it is, we'll never know if we never give it a try...”

“Partner,” Will echoes as, with another sigh, he relaxes back against me and places his hands over mine. “That... That's another reason I... I've been trying to talk myself out of it. I mean, I... I can't. I just can't. It's hypocritical of me, I know that, wanting... you to want me, when... when I don't know when I'll be able to... uh... offer you the full package. Just... Uh... Just the thought of it, I... I'm sorry, but I just can't...”

Kissing the top of Will's bowed head, I gently spin him around and, once he's facing me, pull him back tightly against my body. “There's nothing to apologise for as you're already the full package,” I whisper directly into his ear. “You're brilliant, and beautiful, and any man with half a brain would want you anyway that they could have you. Now... I know what you're saying, and... It's okay. I can wait. Regardless of how long it takes, or how slowly we have to take things, and I'm talking about everything here, I can wait. Will... Just listen to me, okay... You're worth it. And I'm not talking about... worth the time it'll take to get you in to the sack as that's not what I meant by it at all. You're just worth... everything.”

“But...”

“When I thought that I was going to die in Florida, all I could think about was you, and how much I... regretted... not having had the time to get to know you better.”

“You were all I could think about too,” Will replies, sliding his arms gingerly around my waist and, so as not to aggravate the wound in my side, hugging me gently. “But... You don't have to do this, not if it's not what you truly want and are... just going along with it to placate me. If you just want to be friends then I... I'm okay with that too. I mean, I'm not exactly selling myself as any sort of great prize, relationship wise, here and would more than understand if...”

“Actually, as you may well have made me the happiest man in all of Washington at the moment, I wouldn't be so sure of that... not a great prize angle, if I were you,” I interrupt, planting another kiss on the top of his head as, with a contented sigh, he rests his cheek down on my shoulder. “Look. We both know that it's not going to be easy, that... we've got a fight on our hands to make a go of it, but, to put it another way, what have we got to lose, huh? If it's not meant to be, then... it's not meant to be. Again, we'll never know if we never even give it a go in the first place. So... Baby-steps?”

“Baby-steps,” Will confirms as he looks up at me with what would have to be the world's most beautiful smile lighting up his face. “I know I probably sound like a cracked record, and that you're probably over hearing it, but, thank you... As always, just thank you for everything and for just... being you. Ignoring the fact that I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for you, I... I can't think of anywhere else I'd like to be right now...”

~*~*~*~


	18. Chapter 18

~*~*~*~

Spotting Jane and Benji as they lurk – with obvious intent – for my arrival in the foyer of our hotel, my hope of sneaking up to the suite without first having to smile blankly and play nice with my colleagues dies a quick and not altogether painless death and, solely because I'm not yet within hearing distance, I can't help by sigh.

Heavily.

I mean, as if what's waiting for me in the suite isn't going to be bad enough without having to first make my way through the advance party. They're my friends, and I know that they mean well and are as concerned as I am but, having enough on my plate at the moment as it is, I really just don't want to have to deal with them.

Always the consummate actor though, I dutifully plaster a blandly neutral smile across my face and, simply because I can tell from their expressions that they've already seen me and that it's too late to just up and disappear anyway, stride up to them as though I've hardly got a care in the world.

“You didn't need to wait for me,” I comment, nodding to them both in turn as they share a worried look.

“We wanted to know if you'd like to join us for a drink,” Jane replies, pointing across the foyer to the hotel's private, for-guest's-only bar. “You know, before going up to the suite and...”

“Just the one,” Benji interjects with a truly dismal attempt at an encouraging smile. “Instead of... one for the road, it could be one for... Dutch courage.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, glancing pointedly at the elevators, “but as I'm fairly sure I wouldn't be able to stop at just one, I'd better not.”

“Then...” Jane shares another look with Benji and shrugs. “Would you just like us to come up with you instead?”

“We could always just blow the expenses and drain the mini-bar,” Benji adds. “I mean, speaking for myself here and despite not even having... seen... it, I really could just do with a drink around now.”

“Or three,” Jane murmurs as she shifts closer and hooks her arm around my elbow. “What do you say, Ethan? Are you up to blowing out our expense account and seeing if we can drink our way through the mini-bar?”

“While I've certainly heard worse ideas,” I reply, giving Jane's arm a quick squeeze before pulling mine free and stepping around her, “we'd better not. Not, incidentally because I'm worried about expenses, but because...”

“Maybe one on one would be better,” Jane finishes with a sigh as, clearly wanting someone to hold on to, she moves over to Benji and links her elbow around his. “I suspected that would be the case myself, but... Are you sure? Will's our friend, too, and if there's any way that we could help...”

“He'll be fine,” I declare with what I just know in my heart is either false bravado or a serious case of wishful thinking as, smiling at them both far more genuinely this time as I know they're only trying to help, I make to walk off. “This... Uh... This is just what we do, what we've got... too much practice at. Life throws Will a curve ball and I... I just talk at him until he's got himself back on track again. It'll be okay. You'll see.”

“I'm still wishing that I... hadn't... seen,” Jane mutters, pulling a face at the memory of just what it was we'd so... unexpectedly... stumbled across at Engel's house. “Sick bastard. Someone should strap... him... down and see how he likes the feel of all of his fucking toys.”

“But... Uh... I'd have thought he'd have been, you know, the... uh... master, so...”

“I don't care what he fucking is!” Jane exclaims, cutting Benji off as, abruptly pulling her arm free of his, she shoots him an annoyed look. “If he can dish it out he should have to feel it for himself! Perverted creep.”

“I'm not saying that he's not a perverted creep, but...”

“Don't. Whatever it is you're going to say, Benji, just keep it to yourself as I don't want to hear it.”

“I could be wrong,” I mutter, gesturing at the bar, “but this sounds just like the sort of... argument... that would go better with a drink, so... Go. Believe me, I'll be fine going to see how Will is on my own and... It'll be okay, you'll see. With any luck he'll already be over his shock and, if this is the case we might even come down and join you.”

Well...

A man can hope, can't he?

Nodding, Jane flashes me a faint smile and, clearly having forgiven him for daring to have offered an opinion regarding Engel's so-called 'master' status, once again links her arm around Benji's. “While it's not exactly how I planned for my night to end, I suppose it'll just have to do,” she replies as, tightening her grip on his arm, she begins to turn him in the direction of the bar. “Come on, Benji. You can buy me a drink while Ethan here gets to work his magic on Will.”

“As you said,” Benji murmurs, reaching out his hand and giving me what I honestly think is meant to be a reassuring... pat... on my shoulder, “it'll all turn out fine. I mean, of course it will. In every life a little rain must fall, but...”

“If you've ever had thoughts of taking up inspirational thinking,” Jane interrupts, glancing over her shoulder and rolling her eyes at me, “my advice would be to... not give up your day job. So, come on. Let's leave Ethan to get on with it before you feel compelled to hit him with another... pearl of wisdom.”

“What are you talking about? I was just trying to suggest that...”

Leaving Jane and Benji to both bicker and... do whatever they can to put tonight's unfortunate shock behind them, I walk towards the elevators on heavy feet and, for the first time in months, find myself just... hoping for the best where Will's concerned. Benji, despite Jane jumping all over him for having said it, is actually right though. In every life, a little rain... must... fall, and that's all I'm hoping this is. A little rain. A minor set-back. Something to just... work through and move on from. It was unpleasant, and I know that I can't underestimate just how much of a shock it must have been to Will and how... real... all the memories would have seemed to him, but...

These things happen.

Shit happens.

It really was just... one of those things. No-one had any idea it was there, we couldn't have planned for it, there was no-one to blame, it...

It just happened.

A little rain unexpectedly fell on our otherwise quite... safe and content lives.

If I'd been with anyone other than Will, it probably would have only raised both a smirk and a couple of bad-taste jokes, and that would have been the end of it. We'd have moved on with our task of bugging the house and simply forgotten about it until, in a few months time and over a couple of beers, we'd have brought it up as an anecdote to amuse others with.

'Seriously! You wouldn't fucking believe what we found in Marcus Engels' house in Monaco. You'd never know it to look at the weedy little prick, but...'

But, no. It had to be Will. Of course it did. Will, who doesn't see anything even the slightest bit humorous about it, and who, if only I'd gone in first, didn't even need to see it.

He did, though. He did see it, and now I've got to somehow find a way to convince him that it's okay. That everything, from the way he reacted to it, to it not having changed a single thing about how we feel about having him on the team, is perfectly okay.

That... he's okay.

Speaking entirely for myself, my only issue with the whole sorry event is that... Will... has an issue with it. I'm not talking about his reaction, as that was understandable and there'd have to be something wrong with you if you held it against him, so much as I'm worried about what sort of lingering effect it might have on him.

He lost it.

During an active mission.

And, while the stakes weren't particularly high and we weren't under any threat, if the circumstances had been different...

… Well, let's just say that if it had to happen I'm glad that it happened the way that it did.

Safely, with an easy – 'just take the car keys and go!' – exit strategy, and... No harm, no foul.

Realising, just as a bunch of tourists – all dressed to the nines and chattering excitedly about how much money they'd lost at the casino and what an 'experience' it was – start to crowd into the foyer and head in my direction, that I'd been so caught up in my thoughts that I hadn't even hit the elevator call button, I quickly decide that taking the stairs would have to be preferable to having to share a confined space with any of them and make for the stairwell. Entering it, I start walking up the stairs and, knowing that I've got six flights to go and thus even... more... time to go over crap in my head in, try to concentrate more on all of the positives of these past four months as opposed to how the shit has hit the fan tonight.

And, fortunately, there are a lot of a positives.

It's been so good, in fact, that I know now that I've simply been taking it all for granted. 

Will. The effortless way the four of us have gelled together as a team. How missions have actually become... fun... again. The general, possibly even mundane, feeling of contentment. The fact that, sticking with the rain analogies here, nothing had come along to put a dampener on our own little parade.

I'm fairly positive Luther thinks I'm becoming either boring or... domesticated... in my old age, but, if he's right and that is the case, then I say bring it on. I've done both the... bouncing from team to team thing, and the... solo, lone-wolf thing, and if wanting to keep going with what I've now got is considered boring, then... I'm boring. What's more, I'm not even bothered by it. In the form of Will, Benji and Jane, I have more reasons to both smile and carry on than I've had for a long time, and, boring or not, I'm just happy.

Happy to have taken on the 'walk-in-the-park' missions of the past two months in order to both ease Will back in to field work and to trial, fresh from his success at passing the field exam, Benji out in the – actual – field. So what if they've been dull, by-the-numbers type missions? Someone's got to do them. And while surveillance, protection details, or basic intelligence gathering aren't exactly my... favourite... tasks to take on, nor do they suck as much as, over the years, I've convinced myself that they do. Sure, they're a little on the slow side, and pretty much severely lacking in terms of anything near an adrenaline rush, but, they're... okay. They really are. We're still doing something useful, something that we can all derive a sense of satisfaction from having achieved, and, best of all, we're doing it together. Each one of us have had our own part to play and, as I'm the one charged with overseeing how everyone's doing, I can say with nothing but confidence that everyone has more than been pulling their own weight. Benji's still a bit... excited... about being formally out in the field, and I swear I sometimes catch him literally pinching himself to prove that it's really happening and he's not just dreaming, but he's good at what he does and most of the time I actually find his enthusiasm to be quite infectious.

All in all, we just make a good team. Benji and Jane have a quaint, sibling-like dynamic going on and because of this they can either bicker or banter for hours without things ever deteriorating to the point of ill temper. They also view Will as something of an older, slightly more... delicate brother that needs to be looked after while, at the same time, treating him as though he's simply part of the furniture and, so long as he seems to be up for it, giving him as much shit as they give both each other or – for no other reason than they think they can – me. And, thankfully, it all just works. We get on well together, trust each other implicitly, and, again, we've just been taking it for granted.

Four months have passed since Will took the initiative and confessed to wanting to both return to field work and, well, to stay with me in the hope of perhaps one day seeing if we could make... something... together, and, until tonight, he hasn't looked back and has simply come along in leaps and bounds. He took, and of course passed with flying colours, all the refresher courses required to return to field work, purchased a house and moved out of mine, hosted Christmas Day – the first I'd spent actually celebrating the day and not just working through for decades – in said house for the three of us, and, really, has just flourished in everything he's taken on. He looks healthy, has got a lot better at looking strangers in the eye, can mix it in most situations – crowded night clubs or bars aside – as though it's where he honestly wants to be, and, being nothing if not determined, I don't think there's anything he couldn't do if he put his mind to it. I'd never say it for fear of coming across as somehow patronising, but I'm proud of him. I'm proud of him for never having given up, for just taking everything in his stride and, when all is said and done, doing things in his own way and in his own time.

He's not, and what happened at Engels' just proves it, fully recovered, but, then again, given what he endured it's unlikely that he'll ever return to being exactly the same man that he was before and, knowing this better than anyone, he's just taught himself to adapt. Having to sleep with a night-light on isn't the end of the world. Not liking, and this is even without the creepy Salter-factor, the lack of privacy offered by having to work out in a public gym, there's nothing wrong with just sticking with running and using home gym equipment. Knowing that a select few know your... deepest and darkest secrets is actually okay because, if you don't want to put on a brave face and just soldier on all the time, you don't have to. What's also okay is just... trying. It's better, after all, to give most things a go than it is to just shove them in to the too-hard-basket and, simply put, pretend they don't exist. 

Personally, nothing is ever going to make me alter my opinion on him having done remarkably. It's only just coming up on six months since I first rescued him in Paris, and if you were meeting him for the first time you'd be hard pushed to realise there was anything so much as a... little odd... about him. That's not to say that if you were to scratch beneath the surface – make a lewd comment or joke, spend a moment too long looking at him or, God forbid, give any indication whatsoever that you found him attractive – that his façade wouldn't crumble a little and leave you with just the slightest of hints that perhaps everything wasn't as.. perfectly normal... as you'd thought it was, but... Whatever. What's 'normal', anyway? The world over, people are just people. They have their quirks, and their secrets, and their awkward moments, and their annoying habits, yet that's just how they are. Nature or nurture. Maybe they were born that way, or maybe something happened in their life to make them the way they are. So, while someone might see something... not quite right... in Will from time to time, what's to say they won't feel the same way about me for something that I've, without even realising it, done. It's human nature. We're all different and, in some respects, we all see only what we want to see.

Maybe...

I don't know.

Maybe I've been blinkered to Will's progress and, only wanting to see the positives, haven't paid any attention to how he's... really... going. I want him to be fine, and to be part of the team, and in my life while he moves slowly towards that moment when we'll finally be able to move our... friendship... up a level, so...

Maybe that's all I've been paying any attention to.

Me, me, me.

I want Will – pretty much, period – therefore I'm only allowing myself to acknowledge his achievements. Analyst. Friend. Owned the role of team leader when it came to rescuing me from the Everglades. Home owner. Field Agent. Determined. Focussed. Strong. Intelligent.

Survivor.

Someone who survived something utterly horrible and who, maybe, just maybe, is pushing himself too hard and moving along at too fast a pace.

What if everything he's done hasn't been for himself, but because he's been afraid of being seen as letting everyone else down by not living up to their faith in him?

Being nothing if not a deeply private person, it's not something he ever talks about. He says it's what he wants, and that everything he's done he's done by choice, but what if, really, it's all been because he's felt it was what we'd been expecting of him. Do this. Do that. Jump through that hoop. Never stop moving. Brush off the pressure. Smile through the stress. Do whatever it takes to present a calm, fully functioning persona to the world.

We talk. Of course we do. And I know that he trusts me and, most importantly of all, is comfortable with me, but...

What hasn't he been saying?

We sit together on flights. He has no issues with falling asleep next to me. I know that I'm possibly the only person in the world who can touch him without causing him to either instinctively stiffen or suck in his breath. We debrief in private after each mission and he knows that he can come to me at any time should he have an issue with anything. He'd also know that I can't, not even if I'm wearing my 'team leader' cap and have the flow of the mission in my hands, say no to him, that, to this day, I don't have a problem with putting his needs first.

Again though, perhaps I've been wrong all these months and things haven't been as fine as I've been busily convincing myself they are.

Reaching the floor that our suite is on, I exit the stairwell and, all the time doing my best not to consider the various scenarios – hugging knees to chest, curled up on bed, just given up and turned, for the first time, to the numbness offered by alcohol – of just what it is I'm about to walk in to, make my way slowly along the corridor. It's not that I'm afraid of what I'm going to find in the room, or even that I'm forcing myself to do something that I simply don't want to do as, really, that couldn't be further from the truth. Of course I want to do what I can for Will. He's not a... chore... to me, and the concern I feel for both his well being and state of mind is genuine.

It's just...

What can I say to him that I haven't said before? Sure, the actual wording might change, and there might be slight variations on the same theme, but everything that has ever been needed to be said, I...

I swear I've said it already. I mean, there's only so many ways you can say – 'Seriously. I'm not kidding you when I say that it's okay, that... you're... okay.'

I could of course be wrong, but I'm fairly certain that opening the door and going with something along the lines of, 'There, there. I'm not going to let the nasty pervert have his wicked way with you', isn't exactly the way to go. It'd be factual, granted, and very much to the point, but, I'm just not sold on the... helpfulness... of it.

Fucking Engels. It's all his fault. If he hadn't come out of nowhere to be the latest... go-between... in smuggling weapons, people, artefacts, gold, and just about anything that took your fancy so long as it was expensive and illegal, both in and out of the Middle East, we wouldn't have been in his palatial Monaco mansion for the sole purposes of bugging close to every room in it. And, if we hadn't been in his house we never would have stumbled across his... interest... in all things S&M.

So, you know, it's all his fault. It's his fault for being the current go-to guy for moving contraband in and out of the Middle East. It's his fault that his sexual predilection is for bondage. It's definitely his fault that he's got the cash to indulge this predilection in a way that would make even the kinkiest sex club green with envy. And, yes, it's absolutely his fucking fault that we had to discover this in real life as opposed to just as a footnote in an intelligence report.

I'm no prude, and just because it doesn't float my boat doesn't necessarily give me the right to look down my nose at the fact that it works for others. If spanking, as either the spankee or the spanker, is your thing, then, hey, that's your look out. For what it's worth I don't understand people who collect salt and pepper shakers or want to cover their entire body in tattoos either, but, so long as it works for them and they're not hurting anyone else, it really doesn't have anything to do with me. Although I don't personally understand the world of S&M, it could probably be said that by far the majority of the world wouldn't understand why I've chosen to make my living out of being a spy either, so, ultimately it's just a case of saying 'to each their own' and being done with it.

I don't care that Engels is in to bondage. While I very much hope he only ever... gets his rocks off... with the willing consent of his 'slave du jour', that's pretty much where my interest ends. Nowhere in our intel does it have him linked to any sex crimes and, again, so long as it's consensual what he does to unwind is actually, believe it or not, none of our business.

What I do, of course, care about however is Will.

And how he never should have found himself in Engels' Goddamn... playroom. 

Playroom, dungeon, or, to Will, very own corner of a remembered hell. 

On the second floor – and what kind of idiot has such a thing upstairs when he's got a fucking massive cellar under the house? – of his mansion and large enough to have been made up of at least three rooms with their internal walls knocked out, the room really was quite unlike any I'd ever been in before. Black walls and ceiling, windows permanently covered over, slate floor, and... full of every implement of sexual torture – and then some – known to man. Doctor's chair complete with stirrups. St Andrew's cross. Wrought iron, four poster bed with a black rubber covered mattress. Manacles and chains everywhere. Sling. A couple of cages in varying sizes, one of which made me immediately think of the bear cage the Wannabes had kept me in. A random black marble pillar in the middle of the room. It's own, also decked out entirely in slate and black marble, en suite with it's own collection of manacles and the like. It...

It just went on and on, like, I don't know, he was was wanting to cater for every S&M fantasy – or film set – to have ever so much as crossed his mind. And don't even get me started on the whips, paddles, clamps, weights, and... all of the other bits and pieces that, while I'm not naïve and can actually hazard a guess as to what their purpose might have been, I don't even want to think about. The same goes for anything that just happened to be attached to either a battery pack or mains power as well.

Then, because if you can afford your very own sex den you may as well just fucking go all out, there was the collection of life size framed photographs on the walls of naked men and women... modelling, for the want of a better description, some of the uses of both the furniture and the... toys. The photographer having deliberately cropped the heads out of all of the photos, they were just... objects. Naked bodies to be abused, posed, and photographed. Having other things on my mind – like the fact Will was standing in the middle of all of it and seemed to be fighting a losing battle against hyperventilating – at the time, I didn't really pay all that much attention to the photographs, but what I did see of them reminded me of the artistic, stylised shots used by La Fée Noir. High-gloss, black and white, photographed with both care and precision, yet still just pornography masquerading as art.

As rooms to oh-so-innocently stumble in to, it was definitely an eye-opener.

That said, and while I'll admit this probably sounds strange, I've actually walked in to life-threatening traps that haven't left me feeling as immediately... panicked as Engels' play-room did. Our plan of the mansion not having given any indication that it was there, I'd simply opened the door expecting to find either another bedroom or perhaps a library or study, and...

There it was.

I took it all in, thought of Will and how there was no way he needed to see it, and was still trying to decide between just planting my bugs and getting the hell out of there or whether I should check in with Will and instruct him to move on from the second floor, that I had it in hand, when...

I saw him.

Just standing there. White as a ghost and, in his tuxedo, looking about as out of place in the room as you could possibly imagine.

He'd found the room before I had.

Of course he had.

Of all the thirty or so rooms in the mansion, he had to walk, alone, in to fucking Engels' second floor dungeon.

It...

It was just like some sort of hideously awful joke.

Everything had been going both well and to plan, the party Engels had been hosting at his mansion was crowded enough, and sprawling enough to mean that our uninvited arrival had gone unnoticed, Benji hadn't experienced any difficulties taking control of his state-of-the-art security system, I was still deriving perhaps a little more enjoyment out of getting to see Will in a tuxedo than I should have been, and...

… In every life a little rain must fall.

The mission falling by the wayside in the face of Will's – understandable – distress, he immediately became my number one priority and, just wanting to get him out of there, I called Jane up to the second floor to escort him back to the car. Will, he... He didn't say a word. Apart from flinching away from me when I put my hand on his arm, he hardly even acknowledged my presence and, like in Paris all those months ago, just followed my orders without either hesitation or comment. I wanted to go with him, to just bundle him up, retrieve Benji, and for all four of us to head straight back to the hotel. In fact, short of going back in time and making the call to send Will up to the third floor instead of deciding to let him share the second with me, it was all that I wanted. There still being a number of bugs we needed to hide in the mansion though, I couldn't and had to stay in order to see the task through. Not wanting to overstay our welcome and risk drawing attention to ourselves, I couldn't even let Jane drive him back as I needed her at the mansion to share the remaining load, and, because of this, just had to – reluctantly – settle for sending him off on his own. It wasn't ideal, but as we needed to finish what we'd started, I didn't really have any other choice. Will, given that he was in no fit shape to continue, needed to be gotten out of there before he actually became something of a liability, and I, as team leader, needed to ensure the successful completion of the mission.

So I did what I had to do. I had Jane, who didn't look any more enthused by what we were having to do than I was, take Will down to the car they'd, under the guise of arriving as a couple, come in and then, once she'd seen him drive off, I had her come straight back inside and pick up where she'd left off.

And now, as I come to a stop outside our suite and brace myself for what's coming, I'm about to see just how... bad... it all is. Even though I didn't really have a choice, did I do the right thing in seeing the mission through? Should I have sent Jane with Will and just finished it myself? Have we just all made a mistake in thinking he was ready to return to field work when perhaps he wasn't? What if this one unfortunate incident has undone all the hard work it's taken to get to this point?

With these questions and more racing around my head, I retrieve the swipe-key from my pocket and open the door. As I'm fully expecting to find Will in his room as opposed to just lurking in plain sight in the suite's main living area, I don't pay any great attention to my surroundings as I walk through the door and it's because of this – not looking where I'm going – that I very nearly trip over something that's been left lying around on the floor. Swearing under my breath as I straighten myself up, I look down and, noting that the offending article is actually Will's suitcase, my sense of unease grows another notch.

He's... leaving?

Or... Perhaps he knows something the rest of us don't and we're... all... leaving?

“As it really wasn't an email I was wanting to write,” Will announces, flipping the leather cover of his iPad shut as he stands up from the sofa and walks around it to face me, “you're timing, it's... uh... perfect.”

Almost as... taken aback... by Will's presence in the room, especially as I hadn't even been aware of it until he'd spoken, as I am by both his bag being by the door and the fact he's changed from his tux into his preferred travelling outfit of black cargo pants and a long sleeved, in this case dark grey, t-shirt, I stare at him blankly and, for a moment, just don't know what to say. Although he's still pale, nothing else about Will's appearance gives any indication of his recent shock and, while I know this should please me, I can't help but be unsettled by his almost... eerie... calm and know that I'm not going to like whatever it is that's coming. I'm glad that he's not doing the knees-to-the-chest thing and seems, on the outside at least, unfazed by events, but something is up and while it may well be selfish of me, I don't like it.

“Going somewhere?” I murmur at long last as, giving up on attempting to ask anything more deep and meaningful, I just go for both simple and obvious.

“Back to D.C.,” Will replies with a wan smile as, looking as though he doesn't really know what to do with it, he hugs his iPad to his chest. 

“Has there been a change in plans that I'm not aware of?” I query in a quiet, neutral tone that has absolutely nothing in common with how I'm actually feeling. “As Benji and Jane are just down in the hotel bar, do I need to get them back...”

“The team isn't returning to D.C.,” Will interrupts as he walks over and crouches down by his bag in order to place the iPad inside. “Mission wise, the plan is still for you to carry on to Milan tomorrow. I... I, however, am returning to D.C.,” he continues, fussing over the zip on his bag because it's easier than looking up at me. “Again, as I really wasn't looking forward to trying to explain this to you in an email, this is why I'm so glad I managed to catch you before having to leave for the airport. I...”

“You've been recalled?” I mutter, shoving my hands in my pockets and trying for some sort of a nonchalant pose as, there being nothing else he can do with the zip, Will reluctantly glances up at me.

He shakes his head. “No. I haven't been recalled.”

“Then has something happened back home that...”

“Nothing's happened back home. I...” Shaking his head again, Will stands up and, after picking up his bag, goes to stand by the door. “Please, Ethan. Don't make this any harder than it already is. You already know why I'm...”

“You're quitting, then?” I snap as, not wanting to hear this even though – assuming I could pull my head out of my ass for a second or two – I should have both known that it was coming and made my peace with it already, I shoot Will a dirty look.

“No,” he whispers, giving me the sort of imploring – 'please, keep quiet and just listen to me' – look that usually goes straight through me and stops me in my tracks. “I'm not quitting at all.”

“Retreating back to HQ and going back to being an analyst then,” I sneer, hardening my heart to the wounded expression on his face and, for no other reason than I'm feeling wounded myself and want to lash out like a petulant child, just going straight for his weak spot. I know I'm not being fair, that up until I tripped over his bag I'd been busily telling myself that it was all about Will and that I just had to do what I could for him, but...

… I don't want him to go.

Really, it's as simple – and as selfish – as that.

I'm behaving like a – prick – brat that's about to lose his favourite... toy... and I don't like it.

Me.

I... don't... like it.

To hell with Will and his opinions. 

I want him to stay, therefore he has to put his own wishes aside and just do as... I... want.

Or, alternatively, I need to wake up to myself, acknowledge just how unhappy he looks, and get with the damn program.

The program that isn't, and has never been, about me.

“I...” Sighing, I hang my head. “I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that and I apologise.”

“As I haven't gone about this very well either, maybe I did deserve it,” Will replies softly. “I should have just...”

“Regardless of how you'd gone about it, you didn't deserve my display of... petulant selfishness. It was uncalled for, hell, I don't even know where it came from, and I want you to know that I'm sorry for...”

“Speaking your mind instead of first censoring it for fear of upsetting me?” Will offers somewhat matter-of-factly as, dropping the bag to the floor, he takes a step towards me. “It's okay, Ethan. I understand. This... All of it. It's come as a shock to everyone and I'm sorry for throwing the mission, the team, and... our friendship... into disarray. I... For what it's worth, I don't want to go either, but... I have to.”

“What do you mean you have to?” I murmur, lifting my head and, still not feeling particularly worthy of his understanding, giving him an inquiring look. “Of course you don't... have... to go. Look. We understand. What happened tonight was unexpected, and...”

“What happened tonight was a wake-up call,” Will corrects with both a sigh and a frown as he glances at his watch. “Engels'... play-room, I... I'm not going to lie and say that it wasn't a shock, but... what it also was... was the catalyst for the... real... problem.”

“What do you mean... real... problem? Surely you must have known that we wouldn't have let anything happen to you, that... you were safe...”

“And that, Ethan, is the problem,” he replies as he returns to his bag and picks it back up again. “I lost it in that room. I did. I'm not going to stand here and try to deny it. Everything in there, I... I'd been there, done that, you know. Like...” Pausing, he takes a deep breath and, clearly growing more agitated by the second, glances over at me through eyes flashing with emotion. “Like some sort of twisted guide I could have shared what I just happen to know about every single thing in there. What it's used for, what it feels like, how long the marks might last... I even could have pointed out the twin of the whip that was used on my back the night before you rescued me! It... It was all there, and... And I couldn't take it. If you hadn't arrived when you did I'd probably still be there, just waiting for Engels to come along and try me out...”

“But...” Pulling my hands out of my pockets, I walk over to Will and, even though he immediately takes another step backwards, gently place them down on his shoulders. “But I did come along, and... It's okay. Nothing happened, and...”

“Not for the want of trying,” Will interrupts, shrugging off my hands as he moves closer towards the door. “Look. I know nothing happened and don't think I'm not...beyond grateful... for this, as I am, but... Think about it. By losing it like I did, I could have blown the entire mission.”

“But you didn't. We were there for you, and...”

“And by putting me first you could have jeopardised the entire mission!” he exclaims. “Don't you get it? I could have wrecked the mission. Too focussed on what you were going to have to do with me, anyone could have crept up on us in the room, and...”

“But they didn't.” I see where he's coming from, of course I do, but can't he also see that it's both history now and a lesson learnt?

“But they could have,” Will replies miserably. “We could have been caught because of me, and I can't, I just can't be responsible for any harm coming to the team. I... I'd prefer to be strapped to that damn cross with a line of Engels' cronies just waiting to have a go at me than I would... having to live with knowing that I was the cause of anyone in the team getting hurt...”

“You can't say that,” I retort, startled that he'd even... think... such a thing. “Will... We're all responsible for our own actions, not you. I chose to remove you from the mission because I thought it was in both yours, and the mission's, best interests. Sure, it threw things out a little, but in the end we achieved what we'd set out to and everything's okay.”

“I'm glad the mission was a success,” Will responds, sighing as he places his hand on the door handle, “but things aren't okay. At least not for me they're not. I let my own... issues... get in the way of the mission tonight and, in turn, both you and Jane had to pay the price. I know nothing happened, and that you still managed to achieve the desired outcome, but I was a liability tonight and you know it.”

“You weren't...”

“I was. Even if you mightn't think so, I know that I was, and it's because of this that I'm leaving. I'm going back to D.C., not to hide out with the analysts, but to join another team, one that doesn't feel as though they have to look out for me every minute of every day...”

“But... We don't. That's not how...

“You do. You, Benji, and Jane, you all look out for me, and while I appreciate it and may very well turn into a complete wreck without it, I have to prove to myself, to... all of you, that I'm also capable of standing on my own two feet and pulling my own weight...” Trailing off, Will opens the door and gives me a sad smile. “Again, I don't want to go. I want to stay here more than anything, but I... I have to. I have to prove that I can succeed without you having my back before, assuming you'd even still want me, that is, coming back and taking up my place in the team again. I... I get the feeling that you don't believe me and that, although it's the last thing I ever wanted to do, I've hurt you, but... Ethan... I'm really doing this as much for you as I am for myself...”

“Will...” I know that he's going to go, that there's nothing I can say to stop him, and it's making me feel close to useless. I understand his reasoning, and wanting to take himself out of his comfort zone to prove that he can make it on his own is something I'd do myself, but... Useless. It's not that I want to change his mind as, regardless of how I'm going to miss him and will probably worry even more about him as I won't be able to see him or know how he's doing, I know that not only do I not have the right, but that I also wouldn't be able to. Will's made up his mind to go, and... he's going to go. I know that, and in the most basic of ways, I'm even... okay... with it. I just feel useless though because all I've done is stand here while he's gone out of his way to justify himself to me. He's the most special person in the world to me, yet what have I done for him since walking through the door? Nothing. I've snapped at him, made an – unbecoming of me – snide comment, and just... let him talk. While I don't know what exactly I could have done differently, what I do know is that I still should have tried.

“I... My feelings for you haven't changed, Ethan, but I've got to go now if I'm going to make my flight,” Will whispers as, with a dejected sigh, he turns and begins to walk out of the room. “I... You have no idea how sorry I am for disappointing you...”

Disappointing... me?

Some semblance of life finally – slapping me in the face – settling over me as Will disappears from sight, I run out of the room and, as he walks quickly along the corridor, call out, “You haven't disappointed me at all. In fact, you could... never... disappoint me.” Catching up to him just as he reaches the elevator and hits the call button, I spin him around and, although it's a little awkward giving that he's holding his bag, give him brusque hug. “Will... Seriously, it's okay,” I murmur in his ear as he does what he can to hug me back while all the time keeping his hold on his bag. “I'll miss you like crazy, and I want you to know that I'll always be here for you if you need me, but I... I understand why you're doing it and that you... uh... not that you need it, of course... have my blessing...” Trailing off as the elevator arrives and Will, with a resigned sigh, extricates himself from my arms in order to get into it, I give him a small wave and smile as brightly as I can manage. 

“Just remember that, whenever you're ready, we'll still be here waiting for you,” I state with forced cheeriness as, looking as though he's close to tears, Will returns my wave just as the elevator doors glide shut and...

… He's gone. 

“That,” I add in a whisper even though it's too late and I'm only talking to myself, “I'll... be waiting for you.”

~*~*~*~


	19. Chapter 19

~*~*~*~

Jane and Benji bicker. It's just what they do. They do it because they're good at it, it keeps them occupied, and it amuses them. It never, not even when their bone of contention is something actually worth arguing about, deteriorates into vitriol and temper tantrums and, because they know each so well, it just about always ends in laughter. 

Throw Charles Pearson in to the mix as well, however, and the dynamic doesn't change so much as it distorts and grows fangs. He only has to open his mouth – which, sadly, he does with both alarming and annoying frequency – to add his unasked for two cents worth, and the bickering quickly deteriorates to all out war. Forgetting their own disagreement, Jane and Benji gang up on him and, with the overuse of both expletives and volume, try to convince him to mind his own fucking business, but, being nothing if not a firm believer in his own publicity, he just doesn't get the hint and keeps on pressing his point until the others give up and walk off in disgust.

If, that is, there's somewhere to go.

Which, given that we're a team and have to pretty much live in each other's pockets, isn't always the case.

The fights they're capable of having in the car are always fun. Being the designated – always by choice – driver, I at least have something to concentrate on as they go at it and can usually just drone out the yelling and the swearing until it becomes white noise. If I wanted foul language and shouting in the car though I'd just listen to Eminem. Having quickly learned what Pearson, or, as Jane and Benji like – solely because they know he hates it so much that whenever they use it he actually develops a nasty looking twitch in his left eye – to call him, Chuck, was like during our first mission together, having to catch a flight anywhere with him is generally okay as we just make sure that he's sitting up the back of the plane and as far away from us as we can manage. Flying anywhere with him though is, unfortunately, about as good as it gets as the rest of the time he's just there, in our faces and getting on everyone's nerves.

Chuck, on paper anyway, is like the very embodiment of a perfect agent. High I.Q., topped all of his classes with ease, fluent in more languages than the rest of us put together, expert marksman, scored higher marks in all of his aptitude tests than I did, super fit. Again, on paper he really is the full package.

It's just a shame that the brilliance of his write-up doesn't follow through in terms of him being equally as brilliant in person.

As he's not.

He's just... so... not brilliant.

It's like, I don't know, he's had both a personality and a humour bypass. And, while I'm all for oozing confidence, there's still a fine line between that and just being an arrogant bastard, and, Chuck, of course, just has to well and truly fall on the obnoxious know-it-all side of it. I don't mind being challenged, and if you've earned my respect I'll always be prepared to listen to what you've got to say. Come in to my team as a rookie though, and try to shove your opinions down my throat within hours of first meeting me, and... all you're going to earn is both my dislike and annoyance. I tried, politely, to impress this on Chuck but, as it's one language he can't speak, I may as well have just been speaking Latin for all the impact it had on him. He's also sexist, a throw-back to a bygone era that doesn't believe women should be out in the field, and, while he's at it, as he believes his skills are better than Benji's anyway, he doesn't think there's much need for a tech-expert being anywhere other than back at HQ either.

I appreciate that he's young and may just be learning his way, but, sorry, there's still just something not quite right about him. He's rude, opinionated, surprisingly ignorant for someone who's supposedly so educated, unpleasant to be around, and couldn't be more different than Will, who's none of these things, if he actually put some effort into it. I don't want to dislike him, and, fearing that my only real issue with him was the fact that he wasn't Will, I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, I really did. I even went so far as to pull Jane and Benji aside to give them a lecture on giving him a chance as well. Chuck, not once having done anything to alter our initial opinion of him during the nine weeks we've so far been... lucky... enough to spend in his company though, I may as well have just saved my breath.

He's a prick.

There's just no help for it as he is.

No-one likes him, despite his outstanding attributes on paper he's barely an adequate agent at best, and having him as Will's replacement is like adding insult to a still weeping injury.

Nine weeks have passed since Monaco.

Nine weeks since Chuck both lobbed uninvited in the team and started putting everyone's teeth on edge.

Nine weeks since I've actually seen Will.

Nine long, and very tedious weeks.

Zoning out the increasingly strident tones coming from the living area as their argument – over God alone knows what – really begins to heat up, I close my eyes and, for both good measure and because it manages to cover my right ear, drape my arm over them. I'm lying on the bed in the hope of being able to take a quick nap before tonight's surveillance but I know, thanks to the racket seeping in through the door, that sleep isn't going to be forthcoming and that I could, if only I had an actual reason to, just get up and hand the flat's only bed over to someone else. As that, however, would only leave me having to grit my teeth in Chuck's company though – and, really, I'm just not feeling that magnanimous – I'll persevere for the time being and hope for the best.

A bit like I am... in general.

Gritting my teeth, persevering, and hoping for – Will to return – the best.

The incredible annoyance factor of Chuck and every single one of his fucking personality flaws aside, work is still pretty much okay and I haven't, thanks in a large part to Benji and Jane, reverted to the way that I was before Paris. Again, so long as I ignore the Chuck factor, I'm liking being part of a team and, all of the issues I'd had with IMF being largely in the past, I'm still deriving enough of a sense of satisfaction from what I do to want to keep going. I'm not sing-it-from-the-rooftops happy, but nor am I in a complete funk and, really, feel as though I'm just coasting along and in some sort of holding pattern. I do my job, apply at least a little effort in to trying to play the role of peace maker and keeping Benji and Jane from doing their best to tear Chuck to shreds, and, when I have a break in my busy schedule of working and playing referee, I think about Will.

Nine weeks have passed since he walked out of our hotel suite in Monaco and, barring a short text message to let me know he'd arrived safely back in D.C. and had been allocated a place on Scott Henderson's team, I haven't seen or heard from him since. I know how he's doing from both Benji and Jane as they, unlike me, keep in email contact with him, and, as Luther's always been good friends with Scott, I also get to hear, second hand, how well he's settled in with the team and how great he's doing. It not being as though we've had a falling out, or even that we're deliberately going cold turkey from each other, I know that I could send him an email or text, but something always stops me from sitting down and writing anything. I've never – if she was still alive you'd just have to have asked my mother to hear how bad I am in keeping in contact and how she could go for months without hearing anything from me – been a fantastic correspondent and, truth be told, with Will I wouldn't even know where to start. Dry and factual I could probably do, but I doubt he'd want to read it. And, assuming here that I could even manage it, if I went with trying to put my feelings for him into words, it...

It just wouldn't be fair on him.

Will left because he felt that he had to. He had to distance himself from the safety-net he'd had around him ever since Paris, and he had to prove to himself that he was capable of making it, one-hundred percent, on his own. I get it. I do. I also applaud him for both his logic and sense of determination. If things had gone – more – to shit at Engels' mansion, I would have been far more to blame than Will would have. I'm not saying I wouldn't do it again, but I put Will first and, he was right, if someone had come into the play-room they probably would have been able to get the upper hand as I would have been too busy focussing on Will to be paying any attention to my surroundings. He couldn't help his reaction, but I could have. Luckily, it all worked out for the best, but who's to say we'd be so lucky the next time it happened? Again, I get it. What's more, it makes complete sense to me and, in a way, I'm glad that Will was able to pick up on this and make the move himself.

I just miss him though.

I miss him a lot.

Scott Henderson is a good agent. I've only met him a couple of times but, even without Luther's glowing recommendation, I've liked what I've seen. Older than me, and having spent his entire career at IMF, he knows what he's doing, is respected, and I've never heard a bad word said against him. Henderson's also had the same team for years and it's a credit to both Will's skills and determination to see this through that he's been able to slip straight in to the spot temporarily vacated by his usual second-in-command, Chris Taylor, as he recuperates from a bullet wound to the chest. As teams to fall in to go, Henderson's is probably about as good as it could have got for Will and I'm pleased that he's been so successful in making the position his own. Taylor's wound having been a particularly nasty – as in, there was a time when they didn't even think he was going to make it – one, it's still unknown just when he'll be well enough to return to field work and, when he does, what's equally unknown is what will happen to Will. It not being entirely unknown for teams to stretch to five members if the leader felt they all had both a place and part to play, he could even stay with Henderson once Taylor returned. Or, if Henderson couldn't justify keeping him and he still felt as though he had something to prove, he could just move on to another team.

I know what I want, and...

… That is what's best for Will.

Ideally, in terms of my own selfish little world, he'd come back to us and we could just pick up where we left off. This, of course, is what I want. I want him back with – me – us because I still think it's where he ultimately belongs. If he still doesn't feel ready though, or... even if being on his own has made him change his mind about things or made him realise that he doesn't actually need us after all, I...

I'll accept it.

Let's face it, I'll have to.

Will is his own person and the decision as to what he wants to do with his life is his and his alone. He's had enough taken from him without me trying to impress my wishes on him and, regardless of how hard I might take it, I know that I just have to accept whatever it is he wants to do.

I still think that there will come a time when we're reunited as a team. The history we share and the strange bond we've formed aside, the four of us work exceptionally well together and I like to think, even if it's for no other reason, that that'll be enough for Will to want to come back. He still keeps in fairly frequent contact with the others, and nothing they've ever said to me seems to indicate that he doesn't want to come back or that his absence is an indefinite one. Like me though, nor do they come straight out and ask him. Not even Jane, who's far from backwards in coming forwards, has tried her luck in putting him on the spot in terms of a planned return date as she, like the rest of us, knows that it's not only a decision that only he can make, but it's also one that can only be made in his own time.

Although it's taken a fair degree of willpower on my part, I haven't, even though it's something I could do with ease, been monitoring Henderson's missions. While part of me wants to know what Will's up to at all times, the other part knows that I just have to leave him to it and that spying on him from a distance isn't going to help anyone. If something should, God forbid, go wrong, I'll inevitably find out anyway as bad news travels fast through IMF and, should we be the closest team, we'd be the ones sent in to try for an extraction anyway. And, if we weren't, there's nothing to say we could either abandon our own mission at the drop of a hat or get there in time anyway. So... Although it's hard for me – and my inner control freak – to take a step back, at the end of the day it's just best not to know. Will knows what he's doing, Henderson's well respected as a team leader, I've never heard anything bad about the other two members of the team, and, basically, just as we are, they're on their own. For my own sake, I've just had to accept it. 

Just as I've had to accept that... I'll see Will when I'm looking at him.

Our schedules conspiring against us, we haven't even passed through D.C. at the same time. There's been a couple of times when it's seemed likely, and Benji has thrown himself in to the task of trying to arrange a meet-up over either drinks or dinner, but it's always fallen through at the last minute. Henderson scores a new mission, or we're held up thousands of miles away, and the opportunity is lost. It's frustrating, but I don't, I... can't, let it get to me. These sorts of things are out of our control and we just have to roll with them.

Besides, while I mightn't have actually seen Will, I still know when he's been around anyway. It's a small thing, and it's far from being the same as seeing him, but in a quaint, round about sort of way it's still helping to... keep us connected. I know that things haven't changed to the point of him having moved fully on, and... I know that he's still thinking of me.

Will's dislike of both the IMF gym and public gyms in general being deep-seated and, I suspect, long standing, he prefers to work out in private and, as I have a fairly reasonable home gym set up in my house, that's where he goes. It started when he was staying with me and then, when he moved in to his own place, neither of us could see any reason for it to stop. He already had his own keys and access to the security system, was used to the equipment and happy with the program we'd worked out, and, as he neither had the space to replicate the set up in his own house nor lived that far away, it just made sense for him to keep using it. Not wanting to be a nuisance or to put me out, it took a bit to convince him that it was fine and that, really, I couldn't care less what he did in my house whether I was in it or not, but in the end he saw the sense in my offer and has been letting himself in to use the equipment ever since he first moved out.

And, when he's in D.C., he's still using it.

I know this not because the equipment looks used, as it doesn't, or because I obsessively check the security logs, as I'm not quite that sad, but because of the... gifts... he leaves for me to to say 'thank you' by in the kitchen. When we were still in town together it used to be – possibly because he knew I'd usually just give them to him anyway – chocolate bars, but now, and why he settled on this being the way to go is anyone's guess, it's souvenir magnets from whichever towns his most recent mission has taken him through. The sight of the first one, a red phone booth with the word London emblazoned on it, as it sat, looking completely out of place on my once empty refrigerator door, threw me a little to begin with as, not thinking about Will at the time, I just couldn't for the life of me remember putting it there and wondered what sort of whack job would break in solely to leave a magnet on the fridge. Then, as I applied a bit of logic to the situation and remembered just who it was who had access to my house and who may have passed through while I was away, I realised that it had to have been Will. And, yeah, it made me smile. A lot.

Since then, as I want him to know that I've noticed what he's up to, I've been running into souvenir shops and buying – much to Jane's and Benji's bemusement – my own magnets and, whenever we pass through D.C., leaving them on the fridge for him to see. Which, I know that he does because when I'm next standing in front of the refrigerator door, not only are there new magnets, but the ones I've placed there have also been moved. We don't leave notes or anything as obvious as that and just stick with our silent... game... of leaving magnets to show that we've been through. Again, it's a small, quite nonsensical thing, yet it means a lot to me and, I like to think, Will as well. I've never really wanted magnets on my fridge, and I can actually remember getting narky with Julia when she tried to put one there once, but now I can't imagine the door without them. I see them and, it doesn't matter how bad my mood might have been up until that point, they just never fail to cheer me up. 

Making a mental note to – assuming, that is, I survive what is now a very loud and very pissed off argument coming from the living area – pick up a magnet from Madrid before we fly out, I open my eyes, bound off the bed and, with invisible plumes of smoke pouring out of my ears, stride over to the door. Wrenching it open, I silence all three participants of the – never-ending – heated debate with a glacial look, and gesture angrily back in to the bedroom. “Jane! Benji! In here, now!”

“What? What have we done,” Benji whines as Jane gives me a glacial look of her own and Chuck, no doubt thinking I'm actually siding with him here, just smirks smugly. “Ethan? Why should we...”

“In here, now!”

“Fine,” Jane mutters, snagging her fingers in Benji's top and dragging him behind her as she flounces through the doorway. “Happy now, oh great team leader?”

“Fucking ecstatic,” I retort, giving Chuck a dismissive look before slamming the door shut and, as I turn around, pulling a face. “Sorry. Unable to take much more of just whatever the fuck it was you were arguing about, I had to split you up, and...”

“But...”

“And before you feel compelled to convince me of the error of my ways, Benji,” I continue, giving him a pointed look, “it was either leave you two out there and have him in here with me, or... leave the pain in the ass out there and just call you in here. Now... Not wanting to be in an enclosed space with him any more than you do, this was the lesser of two evils. So... Just take it or leave it.”

“As I really was getting close to wanting to slap that stupid look off his face,” Jane replies with a shrug as she takes a seat on the edge of the bed, “I have to say your timing was pretty close to perfect.”

“The man's a pillock,” Ben complains, shooting an evil look at the door – and the... pillock... he knows to be on the other side of it. “Look. I'm pretty easy going, yeah, and I usually get on with just about everyone, but...”

“There's just something not right about Chuck,” Jane finishes as, sighing, she pats the mattress next to her. “Seriously. How he's made it this far in life without anyone killing him is beyond me.”

“How we've made it this far without killing him is beyond... me,” Benji counters. “I know he's young, and that we should give him the benefit of doubt, but...” Trailing off, he sighs and runs his fingers through that short crop on the top of his head that he calls hair. “He's not Will. I... I miss Will.”

“We... all... miss Will,” I murmur as, suddenly feeling far more weary than I did when I was trying to take a nap, I sink down on the mattress alongside Jane and sigh.

Echoing my sigh, Jane drapes her arm around my shoulders and plants a fleeting kiss on the side of my forehead. “Just some of us even more than others, huh...”

~*~*~*~


	20. Chapter 20

~*~*~*~

Switching the engine off without bothering to place the car in the garage, I undo the seatbelt and, because I both can and don't exactly have anything waiting inside the house to entice me to move any quicker, just... sit. Although it's already gone eight in the evening, the sun is still setting and it looks to be a nice night. The sort of night best spent hosting a barbeque or, at the very least, with friends.

Friends. Laughter. Companionship. Familiarity. A reassuring shoulder to lean on. A willing ear to share your woes with.

What it's not is a night to spend alone with a bottle of Jim Beam for company and a determination to consume as much of the bourbon as I can before just passing out in a stupor and putting this rotten week behind me.

Yet that's how I'm going to spend it. 

Once I can bring myself to drag my ass inside, I'm going to crack open the bottle of Beam and just... drink until I can drink no more. Fleeting obliteration and what I can already imagine will be a nasty hangover in the morning aside, it's not going to achieve anything, and as I don't actually like bourbon it's not even going to be particularly pleasant, but, whatever. It's my lame ass plan and, having no better options staring me in the face, I'm going to stick to it.

Drink and, hopefully, forget.

Forget the tedious cold – not, contrary to what Jane liked to call it, Man Flu – and constant headache I suffered throughout the last mission and which, all being well, I think I've only just managed to get rid of.

Forget Chuck. Period.

Forget that Benji is currently recovering in the infirmary after Chuck – 'Mr I-Don't-Need-To-Listen-To-You-Because-I-Know-Better-Anyway' – deliberately turned a deaf ear to my instructions and left Benji to face the gang on his own. As I'd tried to convey to Chuck, the gang find it the height of rudeness to be met by only one representative of the organisation they're thinking about doing business with and, by seeing Benji there on his own, they immediately grew suspicious of his credentials and proceeded – for them, accordingly – to beat the hell out of him. Benji, thankfully, will recover and should be fit enough to return to the field in a couple of weeks, but the mission was blown and I now refuse to ever work with Chuck again.

Forget the massive folder sitting in my email that contains all the names and details of the agents I get the joyous job of having to choose Chuck's replacement from.

Forget that I still don't know when the only agent I want on the team is going to be ready to return.

Forget that I don't even know... if... he's going to return.

Forget that the last agent from my intake group died this morning and that I'm now all that's left of the old gang. We were never what you'd call great friends, in fact we were never more than acquaintances thrown together by our training group, and it's been a good few years since I even last saw Michael Fowler, but his sudden death from a brain aneurysm has still managed to come as something of a shock me. He was my age, we'd joined IMF at the same time, and, apart from me, he was the last remaining agent from that group of naïve and wide-eyed men and women who'd first met in the assembly hall all those years ago. Not all have died, thankfully. The majority, in fact, simply quit IMF within either a few months or a few years and made lives and careers for themselves elsewhere. The rest, with the exception of Hannah Slattery who died in a road accident while driving in to HQ and now Fowler himself, met their maker while on active duty though, and I'm now... it. The last, if you like, of my kind.

And, thanks hopefully to the bourbon – chosen, despite my own dislike of the stuff, in memory of Fowler as I remember it being his drink of choice – that's something I'm really wanting to forget as well.

Drink to forget. Drink to put both today and the last week behind me. Drink because, for tonight at least, it just has to be better than reality.

Not really wanting to either swig directly from the bottle or to do my passing out in the Mercedes as it sits for all the neighbours to see in the driveway, I grab the Jim Beam from the passenger seat and climb out of the car. I then walk up to the front door and unlock it before going inside and making my way straight over to the alarm panel. Focussed solely on my uninspiring goal of just splashing some bourbon into a glass, it's not until I'm halfway through entering my pin code that I notice that the security system isn't even on and, immediately more alert than I was a second a go, I place the bottle both carefully and silently onto the floor and pull out my gun. My system – being too smart for its own good – having been both designed and installed by the IMF tech-geeks, it turns itself on once it realises the house has been empty for fifteen minutes, so, even if I had forgotten to engage it when I left last week it should still be on now. It also has its own dedicated power supply, which means it can't have been turned off by a blackout, and, if I'm to believe the hype of the guy who installed it, it should be absolutely, one-hundred percent safe from hackers.

Given the way my day's been going, I'm more annoyed than I am... alarmed... by my inactive security system and, with both a sigh and my gun cocked, I creep further in to the house and am about to head up the stairs to check out my cache when I hear sounds of movement coming from the kitchen. Still more pissed off that I appear to have an intruder than I am actually bothered by it, I stalk towards the kitchen and, seeing no need to pussy-foot around, position myself directly in the middle of the doorway.

And...

Suddenly, not to mention amazingly, everything makes perfect, quite wondrous sense.

Instead of instantly erring on the pessimistic, 'glass-is-half-empty' side of things by thinking I had to have been broken in to, I should have applied a bit of logic to the situation and realised that there's another explanation for the security system having been turned off.

And that's that it was turned off by someone who has the pin code.

Someone who's as entitled to come and go in the house as I am, and who...

… To my absolute, mouth-gaping-open in shock, delight, is standing in my kitchen and smiling brightly at me.

Will.

Here. In my kitchen. Looking – gorgeous – well, and wearing black jeans and the same navy-blue, ribbed turtle-neck that he had on after rescuing me from the Everglades, he's such a sight for sore eyes that, feeling as though I've lost the ability to speak, all I can do is stare at him.

“You know,” Will comments, his smile slipping slightly as he gives me a worried look, “although I have to admit to having run through quite a few scenarios in my head as to how you'd react to seeing me, nowhere, and I really do mean... nowhere... did I picture you waving a gun at me...”

“I... Shit!” Returning my gun to its holster, I shrug and flash Will an apologetic smile. “Sorry. When I saw that the security system was inactive, I... put two and two together and, in a spectacular example of not thinking, came up with... uh... a home invasion.”

“Oh...” Looking more uneasy by the second, Will frowns and glances towards the door that leads in to the garage. “Sorry. The plan, if I'd done a better job of listening out for the garage door, that is, had been to meet you by the car, but...”

“If it helps, you can stop second guessing your hearing as I parked in the driveway,” I interrupt as, feeling increasingly flustered by Will's sudden return, I struggle with trying to work out how I should react. What I want, of course, is to take him in my arms and just hug him tightly. Three months having passed since we last saw each other though, I don't know how he'd feel about being embraced and don't want to do anything that could inadvertently upset him. He's here, which has to count for something, but, siding once again with my inner-pessimist, what if he's come to tell me he's joined Henderson's team permanently, or, worse, that he's realised he's actually better off without me?

The way I see it, given the day I've had, just about nothing would surprise me.

“Uh... What are you doing here, anyway?” I add as, looking past him and seeing the selection of vegetables spread out over the chopping board on the bench, I note that I appear to have interrupted him while he was in the process of preparing dinner. “Is there something wrong with your kitchen?”

“My kitchen? No. There's nothing wrong with my kitchen. Why do you...” Stopping himself mid sentence as, glancing at the chopping board, he realises just why it is I might have asked such a... peculiar... question and both shakes his head and shrugs. “I thought you might have liked... Uh... Never mind. I'm back in D.C. because we'd just wrapped up in New York and, while we'd been going to stay for a couple of days to debrief and play at inter-agency bonding with the FBI, I decided to come straight home when I heard what had happened to Benji and learned that he was going to be in the infirmary. And, I... I'm in your kitchen because Benji told me about Michael Fowler's death and, knowing that you'd gone through training together, I thought you might have liked the company. I... I then thought, as I haven't eaten since whatever that excuse for food was on the plane, that I may as well cook us both dinner while I'm here, but... Uh... If you don't want me here, I... I'll just go and leave you in peace.”

It suddenly hitting me that in my – struck dumb with – shock, instead of letting Will know just how... unbelievably overjoyed... I am at seeing him, what I'm actually do is... hurting him. He's done the right thing, the... kind... thing by both returning to D.C. early to see Benji and then coming round to see how I'm faring with the news of Fowler's death, and I'm treating him with...

Actually, I don't quite know... how... I'm treating him.

With... disinterest, maybe?

However it is though, it's not how I want to be treating him and the indecisiveness and... holding back... stops now.

“Of course I want you here,” I reply as, grinning, I walk over to Will and, through the power of my hopeful expression alone, silently ask his permission to touch him. “Don't let my stunned mullet performance confuse you, as I... I'm delighted that you're here and... uh... clearly just don't know how to show it,” I continue just a tad breathlessly as, with an almost imperceptible nod, Will steps forward and makes the first move by sliding his arms around my waist. “I...” Following suit by sliding my arms around Will, I hug him tightly and just luxuriate in both the feel of his body pressed against mine and how, instinctively, he hugs me back. “Oh God... I've missed you. I know I haven't shown it, but I... I've just missed you so much...”

“I'm missed you too,” Will whispers, giving me one final, rib-crunching squeeze before pulling back and cupping his hands around my cheeks. “I don't regret the past three months, but I'm still glad that they're over, that you... that you're really here,” he adds quietly as, leaning forward, he plants a quick kiss on my lips. “I wish the circumstances were different in that Benji wasn't injured and that Michael Fowler was still alive, but I'm glad to be here, and...” Blushing as his stomach grumbles loudly, he steps back and, looking down in the vicinity of his navel, pulls a face. “And I hope you're as hungry as I obviously am!”

While the thought of food had just about been the last thing on my mind as I walked in to the house, now that Will's both here and clearly offering to cook, I have to say that the idea of sitting down to eat is suddenly striking me as a good one and, smiling, I look pointedly over Will's shoulder in an attempt to see if I can work out what it is he'd been preparing. “I hadn't been, but, as you're cooking,” I murmur, “I think I can force myself to eat something.”

“Force yourself, huh?”

“Well... Until I'd discovered that you'd broken in and were making yourself at home in my kitchen, I... had... just been planning to get drunk on bourbon.”

“Bourbon?” Wrinkling his nose, Will returns to the bench and, picking up a knife, begins to deftly chop a carrot into strips. “I thought you preferred scotch.”

“I do, but...” Shrugging, I join Will by the bench and snatch up a piece of carrot. “Fowler, he always used to drink Jim Beam, and...”

“You thought you'd drink it in his honour,” Will finishes with an easy nod of understanding. “Fair enough. That makes sense. I don't know what it'd be like with the beef stir-fry I'm making, but if you want to go and get the bottle we could share a toast to him while I cook.”

“You want to join me?” I query, surprised by this because in all the time I've spent with Will he's always refused all offers of alcohol and, not wanting to come out and ask if he'd always been a teetotaller or whether he was now afraid of getting drunk and losing control, I'd just stopped offering.

“As I've never liked bourbon, not particularly,” he replies, lightly smacking my hand as I reach for another piece of carrot. “For Fowler though, I... I'm prepared to share a toast to his life with... a sip... of it.”

Nodding, I murmur, “Sounds good to me,” and, after successfully snatching up another piece of carrot and popping it in to my mouth, walk out of the kitchen to retrieve the bottle of bourbon. Picking it up from under the security panel, I return to Will just in time to watch him place two shot glasses down on the bench and, cracking open the seal on the bottle, silently splash a small amount of the bourbon into each of the glasses. Handing one to Will, I pick up the other and clink it against his. “To Michael Fowler.”

“To Michael Fowler. A good man taken too soon,” Will replies, downing his bourbon in one mouthful before, with a shudder, returning his glass to the bench. “I liked Michael,” he adds, giving the Jim Beam bottle a look of disgust, “but his drink of choice left a lot to be desired.”

Swallowing my own mouthful, I nod and, now that I've been reminded of just what Beam tastes like I'm more relieved than ever that Will's here to save me from drinking any more of it, return the lid to the bottle. “Scotch definitely would have been better,” I agree, picking up both of our glasses and carrying them over to the sink.

“Definitely better.”

“You...” Curiosity may have killed the poor unfortunate cat and all that, but, damn it, as it's a question that's been rattling around in my head for a while now I may as well, I suppose, just come out and ask it. “You... drink?”

“I used to,” Will responds with a shrug as he moves on to cutting up a red bell pepper. “Now though... As I suspect you've already worked out for yourself, I choose not to because, A) there's days that if I started I don't think I'd be able to stop and, B) I don't want to be in a position of possibly losing control, so... I don't drink and, while giving it up wasn't something I'd ever planned to do, I don't miss it.”

“Makes sense to me,” I reply as, not wanting to make an issue out of it, I decide to just swiftly move on. “Now... Beef stir-fry, yes?”

“Uh-huh. Just something quick and easy. Assuming, that is, you can bring yourself to leave a few of the vegetables to actually make it in to the wok,” he murmurs, waving the knife at me as I help myself to another stick of carrot. “There is, however, allegedly home made apple pie for dessert. I know it doesn't exactly go with stir-fry, but I saw it in the farmer's market while I was getting everything else, and I... I remembered how you'd once let it slip that apple pie was your favourite, and...”

Silencing Will with a soft kiss delivered straight to his lips, I close my hand around his shoulder and, touched as much by the fact he even remembered that I liked apple pie as I am by him having thought to buy one for me, smile. “I know I've said this already, but I really have missed you.”

“Mmm... Because I feed you,” Will retorts, flashing me a smile in return as, clearly comfortable with how things are going, he sneaks another quick kiss. “Few and far between though they may be, I... do... have my uses.”

“Oh, I think your uses are both varied and plentiful,” I reply, glossing over the implied... darkness... in Will's comment and, as always seems to be the case, deciding to just do what I can to keep the moment light, “but, yes... Your ability to feed me... is... one of the many things I've missed about you.” It's a small thing, compared to his thoughtfulness and the pleasure I simply get out of having him around, but as I get the feeling now probably isn't the time to come out and share this, I think I'll just keep it to myself for the moment. “I mean, as I think I may have already mentioned, your kind offer of a meal is, after all, saving me from a night of bourbon.”

“Then, really, my work here is done,” he responds, giving me an amused look as he goes back to his chopping. “Saved from having to drink bourbon, a hot meal placed in front of you... Just... What more could you possibly want?”

“Well, seeing as I appear to be lucky enough to have both... that... and apple pie as well,” I murmur, winking at him, “you know, I can't really think of a single thing.”

“Keep it up with that smart ass attitude of yours and I might have to rethink my original thought of having missed you,” Will mutters with feigned look of disapproval as he uses his knife to gesture towards the door. “Now, seeing as this takes next to no time to cook and I've already got the pie in the oven heating up, why don't you go and have a quick shower while I just finish up here...”

“Yes, mom,” I smirk as, seeing absolutely no reason not to go along with Will's plan, I start to walk out of the kitchen. “Is there anything else you'd perhaps like me to do while I'm at it?” 

“I... Sorry... You don't have to...” Sighing in obvious exasperation, Will drops the knife down onto the chopping board and, after wiping his hands on a towel, rubs his fingers against his temples. “Sorry,” he continues as, his good mood and confidence dissipating before my very eyes, he gazes down at the bench and won't look at me. “I come in here, uninvited, I might add, all but force a meal on to you, and... and now I'm telling you what to do like... Like I think I've got the right to! I... Shit! Ethan, I... I'm sorry. If I'm... taking you over... and you want me to leave, then... just say so and I'll be out of your hair...”

“Hey... Enough of that...” Returning to Will, I close my hands around his upper arms and gently pull him towards me. “I don't think you're taking me over at all, and I really haven't been kidding about having missed you. I... Listen to me, Will. I'm so glad that you're here that I honestly don't think there's a single thing you could either say or do that would dint my good mood. And, while I'm at it, if you want to tell me to do something, you can. You're my friend and I want you to be comfortable enough with me to both... not censor yourself and to just say whatever it is that pops into your mind. So... Cheer up and, as I don't want the pie to get burnt, get on with your chopping so we can eat once I've had my shower.”

“I just...” Sighing again, Will lifts his head and, as our eyes meet, smiles tentatively. “Sorry. It's just that I had this sudden, dreadful thought that I was being... too bossy or something. If... If you're truly okay with with it though...”

“Trust me. I'm more than okay with it,” I interject, kissing his forehead as I let go of his arms and once again start to walk out of the kitchen. “Good food, good company, and... no bourbon. I pretty much feel as though I've won the lottery.”

Laughing off his momentary unease, Will grabs the wok out of the cupboard under the bench and places it on the hot plate. “If only everyone was so easy to please,” he murmurs. “Uh... Seriously though, if you don't want to take a shower or...”

“Given that I'm fairly certain I'm going to find spots of Benji's blood all over me when I take my jacket off,” I reply, pausing in the doorway to glance back at him over my shoulder, “believe me, I... want... to take a shower.” Walking off before I get to see Will's face fall as he remembers that Benji's both hurt and stuck in the infirmary, I head up the stairs to my bedroom and make my way straight through it and in to the en suite. Placing my gun on the basin, I strip off and, once the water is to my liking, step into the shower.

Will...

He's really here, and despite not having seen him for three months, he doesn't seem to have changed, in either appearance or character, at all. He's still kind, thoughtful, both easy going and easy to get on with, and... still prone to completely random bouts of crushing self-doubt. For his mood to have suddenly soured because he thought he'd come across as all bossy and dictatorial when, really, he was just thinking ahead, it...

It's not right.

He'd done nothing wrong. Certainly nothing that most people would have even paused to give second thought to. Yet, because of what was done to him last year, he just doubts himself over the smallest of things. Everything he's done, as far as I'm concerned, has been both thoughtful and in the best interests of others. From leaving his team in New York to rush back to D.C. in order to see Benji, to both wanting to be with me because he thought I might be upset over Fowler's death and buying an apple pie because he knew that I liked them, all of Will's actions have just been those of a genuinely... nice... person.

And, damn it, he certainly doesn't deserve to always find ways to doubt himself. 

Suggesting, and I'm personally of the opinion that it was far more of a suggestion than it was an... order, that I might like to take a shower while he finishes cooking dinner, shouldn't, in anyone's books, be cause for sudden doubt. It just shouldn't, and I hate that Will doesn't yet feel fully confident of simply... being himself. He's come so far, and I've always only been stating the truth when I've called him my equal, but the damage that was done to him is just so deeply entrenched that he can't seem to, regardless of how hard he tries, shake himself free of it. He was made to feel worthless and, even now, despite not only having been free for nine months but also having successfully returned to the hectic, high pressure world of being a field agent, he's still experiencing moments of doubt and... worthiness, which...

Again, just isn't right.

He was only a body to all of the men who used him, no-one – or nothing – they had to concern themselves with or, really, even view as being human. They might have paid for the... privilege... and, in terms of that God awful Parisian club at least, I choose to believe that they wouldn't even have been aware of the fact that he wasn't there by choice, but... I don't know. If they could see him now, see how their fleeting moment of sordid pleasure has forever changed him, would it perhaps make a difference to them? Would they rethink how they achieved their orgasm if they knew the damage would be far more lasting than just a couple of welts or abrasions?

To me, Will is just... Will. Not having met him before what happened in Berlin, I've only ever known him like he is now and, while the only problem I have with him is that I wish he didn't have to carry the weight of his memories on his shoulders, I'd love for him to have more confidence in himself. He's a brilliant agent, a great friend, and someone I just happen to both care about and feel honoured to know.

Somehow, and I don't even care how long it takes, I just have to convince him of this.

Although I have no real idea as to how long it's going to take Will to cook the stir-fry, I don't linger under the water and, simply because I want to get back to him, quickly wash myself before turning off the taps and getting out of cubicle. Grabbing a towel, I roughly dry myself off and, once this is done, tie it around my waist and head back into the bedroom in search of something to put on. Jeans and a black shirt striking me as a good enough choice, I pull them on and, after both cursorily checking out my reflection in the mirror and feeling content enough with the image staring back at me, leave the bedroom and head back downstairs to the kitchen. Entering it just as Will is dishing up, I smile a greeting and go over to stand by the already set table. “Can I do anything?”

“Sit and eat?” Will offers as he returns the wok to the hot plate before picking up the plates and carrying them over to the table. “I think I've got everything, but... if you think something is missing or would like...”

“As it's all looking pretty good to me,” I interrupt, taking a plate from Will and sitting down, “I say we both just sit down and eat.”

Nodding, Will places his plate down on the table before taking a seat and smiling across at me. “I still wish that the circumstances were different, but, having been looking forward to this moment ever since I got in to that elevator in Monaco, I'm glad I'm here,” he murmurs, reaching for his chopsticks. “I've missed you, and Jane, and Benji, and I hope... Uh...” Falling silent, he smiles a little too brightly and shakes his head. “Never mind. That can wait until after we've eaten, so... Please. Let's just eat.”

“I think I can manage that. Oh... And thanks for this. It looks... and smells... fabulous,” I reply as, using a great amount of willpower to stop myself from immediately seeking clarification from Will as to what it was he'd just stopped himself from saying, I pick up my chopsticks and start to eat. Not wanting to get my hopes up in respect to him having reached the conclusion that the time is right to rejoin the team, I simply concentrate on enjoying the stir-fry for a couple of minutes before complimenting Will on his cooking skills and moving seamlessly into the realm of small talk.

Will having once worked a mission with Fowler, we fall on to the topic of his shock death and, clearly finding it to be somewhat neutral territory, share our recollections of both him and our initial training until it's time for dessert. As we talk and eat, I keep sneaking glances at Will and, as much to my amusement as it is to my delight, I keep catching him looking up and glancing over at me. When, over chopsticks held halfway up to our mouths, our eyes actually meet, instead of the moment being an awkward one that we both try to brush off by immediately looking down, we just laugh, grin, and carry on eating. 

Although I'm fairly certain there's something on Will's mind, something quite possibly big that he's just waiting until the right moment to share with me, he clearly relaxes as the conversation flows and it really is like we've never been apart. I still don't know why it is that I always feel so comfortable with him, but I just do. Being in the same line of work helps, as does the... intensity... of what we've shared, but I still just can't help but think there has to be more to it. I'm not, as a general rule, all that easy to get on with. I can fake friendship and make you believe you're my best friend if I feel the situation requires it, but, really, I'm not going to lose any sleep if you don't like me. With Will, however, we just... get on. Like, as my grandmother always used to say, a 'house on fire'. I worry about him, and carry with me the lingering fear that I'll do or say the wrong thing to him, and Will, I know, still has the worry that he's either a nuisance or that I feel as though I'm stuck with him, but at the end of the day it just doesn't matter. Sure, we might say the wrong thing or doubt ourselves at every turn, but it doesn't stop us from just... going for it... anyway. We talk, and we tease, and smile when we look at each other, and, as Will carries our empty plates over to the sink before getting both the ice cream out of the freezer and the apple pie out of the oven, I know more than ever that I want him to be constant presence in my life.

This realisation, of course, turning my thoughts back in the direction of whatever it is he's wanting to tell me when we've finished eating, I focus on serving up overly generous scoops of vanilla ice cream on top of our – equally as overly generous – slices of pie and, once Will has returned to the table, throw myself quite cheerfully back in to the task of making small talk. Fowler, when it comes down to it, not having been the most memorable of men, I move on to explaining to Will just how terribly obnoxious Chuck was and, complete with foul language and very detailed examples, this easily sees us through dessert. The apple pie, while almost as good as my mother's, being far too filling for either of us to fit in a second slice, we decide to just finish up with coffee and, once it's made and the dishes are in the dishwasher, we carry our cups into the living room and take a seat on the sofa.

Content, even though there's still a part of me that can't help but be a little anxious over whatever it is Will's just waiting to come out and say, with how the evening's been going so far, I smile at him as he settles himself against the arm of the sofa and, with a quick roll of my eyes, murmur, “I can't believe I haven't asked this already, but... How are you? You look well, in fact, you look... better... than just well, but...”

“I'm good,” Will replies, smiling as he cuts me off. “Actually, I'm... really good.”

“Then that's... uh... good,” I respond, taking a sip of coffee that, instead of calming the butterflies that I can suddenly feel fluttering in the pit of my stomach, only seems to agitate them. 

Just... 

… Please don't tell me that the reason for him being... so... good... is because he's found a home in Henderson's team. I know I should be pleased for him, that he deserves to both embrace, and stick with, whatever it is that makes him happy, but I...

Pathetically, I just really don't want to hear it.

It wouldn't mean that I couldn't see him, or that we couldn't still be friends, or... even more than just friends, but, damn it, not wanting to endure another Chuck-clone, what I want, what I... really... want, is the full package. I want Will on the team and I want him to be completely in my life. It's selfish, and possibly even arrogant of me, but solely in the name of being fully honest with myself, it's what I want. It just is. This evening, particularly after having spent three months apart, has just really hammered it home to me how much he means to me, and how... happier... I am when he's around.

“Well, I certainly don't have any complaints,” Will murmurs, giving me an odd, if not slightly worried look. “Ethan? Are you okay? You're looking a little...”

“I think I may have burnt my tongue on the coffee, that's all,” I lie as, wanting it to at least... sound... believable, I lean forward and place my cup on the coffee-table. “But... Don't worry about me. I want to hear about you.”

Peering down at his own coffee, Will takes a tentative sip and, no doubt not finding it too hot at all, frowns. “If I made it too hot...”

“No, no. It...” It's not you, it's me. “I must have just let it rest on my tongue for a second too long or something. Just... Forget about it. I'll finish it after it's had time to cool down. Now... Come on. I really do want to know what's so... good... about your life.”

“While I don't know if I'd go so far as to say I... enjoyed... it, the time I spent with Henderson and his team was a good experience for me,” Will replies, taking another mouthful of his coffee as he continues to look far from convinced at the legitimacy of my reaction. “Henderson's a great agent, and his team is one that runs on mutual respect, trust, and friendship. They were also, despite obviously missing Taylor, very welcoming to me and never made me feel like I was anything other than a full part of the team. I... I liked them.”

“Then that's... good,” I reply with as much false sincerity as I can muster. “I... I'm glad.”

“Mmm... You sound it, too,” Will mutters drily as, to my surprise, he both shakes his head and laughs. “Okay. Fine. I'll cut to the chase. Given the day you've had, you may not have heard this already, so... Let me be the first to tell you that Taylor's passed all his fitness tests and has been declared fit for duty.”

“Oh...” He has. Well, there you go. Again with the whole learning a new thing every day.

“The team, obviously, can't wait to get him back.”

“Well... Obviously.”

“Mmm... Taylor's rejoining them once they've finished playing with the FBI in New York, but... Even though he'd make the team complete, Henderson's said that there's still a place for me there with them if I want it.”

“Oh...”

“Again with the... 'oh'. Watch it, Ethan, or I might to start to think I'm boring you or something.”

“I...” Shit. Just because I'm feeling like a sulky prick doesn't mean I actually have to... behave... like one. “Uh... Sorry. Of course you're not boring me, and... if staying with Henderson and his team is what you want, then...”

“Did I... say... it was what I wanted?” Will interrupts with what I swear has to be a smirk.

“Uh... I just...”

“You just... jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

“I... did?”

“You did.”

“Oh.”

“I was telling you about Taylor, and the fact that I could stay with the team if I wanted to, first, because... uh... I thought you might want an... I don't know, escape clause, or... get out of jail free card, or... something like that.”

“An escape clause?” Okay. Now he's really got my attention. “What are you talking about? What am I going to need to... escape... from?”

“The fact that staying with Henderson isn't what I want at all,” Will replies as, his confidence once again up and deserting him, he looks down at the coffee-table. “That... what I want... Uh... That is... What I'd... like... is... I mean... Oh God... Sorry. This... This isn't coming out right at all. What I would like to... ask... you is...”

“If what you're trying to say is what I'm... hoping... you're trying to say,” I interrupt as, both reading between the lines here and cheering up immensely, I shift along the sofa and place my hand on Will's thigh, “then... It's not something you have to ask at all. As the spot has never stopped being yours, you... You just have to... tell... me.”

“But...”

“Seriously, Will. Don't ask, just... tell.”

“But...” Sighing, Will places his cup down on the coffee-table. “You don't have to... pander to me, or...”

“As it's what I want too, I'm not pandering to you at all and just want you to know that you don't have to ask, that, again, the spot has never stopped being yours.”

“I...” Lifting his head, Will gives me one of his patented wide-eyed and worried looks. “I want to come back,” he whispers. “Nothing against Henderson, as I really do feel as though I owe him a lot for having taken me in like he did, but I... I've missed you, and Benji, and Jane, and want... uh... would very much like... to come back...”

“Then once Benji's ready to be back in the field, we'll be a team again,” I state simply as I shift even closer to Will and gently bump my elbow into his side. “It... It really is that easy. You... did what you felt you had to do and, if you're ready to come back, your place in the team is there waiting for you.” Pausing, I grin and, draping my arm around his shoulders, give his cheek a kiss. “If it helps, I know I'm speaking for all of us when I say... Welcome back!”

“Just like that?” Will murmurs as, despite still looking doubtful, he relaxes against me and places his hand over mine. 

I nod. “Uh-huh. Just like that.”

“But...”

“You want to come back, yes?”

“I... I do. But...”

“You originally left for a reason, yes?”

“Uh... Yes. I wanted to prove that I could... do whatever it took to be a successful agent.”

“And... Did you?”

“Did I... what?”

“Prove that there's nothing you can't do when you put your mind to it?”

“I...” Smiling as the penny finally drops, Will nods. “Actually, I did,” he replies. “It probably sounds like nothing... Hell... To just about everyone else it... would... be nothing, but... During these past three months I have managed a number of things that, well, were outside of my... admittedly quite small... comfort zone.”

“And...? Do you want to share your... ticks... off your bucket list with me?” I prompt, tightening my arm around his shoulders and, simply because I can, giving his cheek another kiss.

“Bucket list?” Will repeats with a snort of, I suspect, more bemusement than... amusement. “Some bucket list, I don't think. But... Okay. Listen to my achievements and...uh... weep. I... had to seduce a target. She was quite nice, actually, and I didn't have to... seal the deal, so to speak, but... I'd still be lying if I said it was my idea of a good time. Oh... Then there was the... very friendly... customs official in Argentina who copped a feel while frisking me. That... That was bad, but I still somehow managed to keep it together, which, hey, just has to be viewed as a considerable positive. Better still, I even managed to keep it together when I got captured, cuffed and had a bag over my head for a couple of hours. So... Go me, huh...”

“Go you... indeed,” I murmur, not really wanting to hear any more about him having been captured but, at the same time, not wanting to make light of his... achievements... at all. For Will, any of these things would have been a big deal, and for him to have both made it through them, and... to be able to talk about them with relative ease, well, it... is... a big deal.

“I even managed to smile blandly and fake a laugh or two when Fraser gave Suppinger a pair of furry pink handcuffs and a glow in the dark vibrator for her birthday and then proceeded to chase her around the hotel suite with them,” he adds as, both sighing and looking unimpressed at the memory, he presses up against me. “I... Needless to say I found it... far... from hilarious, and I very nearly lost it when he touched the damn vibrator on my thigh, but I... I coped. I coped because I knew that I had to, and... It's a small thing, they're all only... small things, I know that, but I took each and every one of them as a positive. I sucked it up, made it through on my own and, kept going, and now...”

“You know that you can,” I finish with an encouraging smile. “That... if you have to, there isn't anything that you can't force yourself to get through. In other words, you achieved what you set out to in that you now know that you can both adapt to whatever the situation is and just roll with it, yeah...”

“Something like that. Some of the... events... made me dig deeper than others, but... knowing that I was essentially on my own, that I had to just get through it if I wanted to succeed, I... I pushed ahead and, well, made it through to the other end.” Smiling wanly, Will tilts his head back against my arm and sighs. “I'm not going to lie and say that every day was a walk in the park, as I have to admit to there being days when I really struggled, when I'd look at Henderson and the others and wish they were you, Benji, and Jane so much that... that it actually hurt. After that asshole customs guy felt me up and I was hating myself for feeling so... revolted, and so... dirty, all I wanted was your arm around me like it is now and to hear you telling me that it was okay, that... I... was okay, but... Uh... You weren't there and, knowing that I had to keep it together for the team and play my part, I... kept it together and played my part.”

“Which, again, is what you wanted to achieve,” I reply, hating that Will's had to put himself through this, in a sense, trial by fire, yet at the same time acknowledging that, for his own peace of mind, it was something he both had to do, and do on his own. If I'd been Henderson I never would have made him seduce someone, and while there's possibly a more than fair chance that Jane would buy Benji – as opposed to the other way around – a vibrator as a joke, she'd never give it to him while Will was around and, by going out of our way to protect him like that, we'd probably only have done him more of a disservice than we would a kindness. Our intentions would have been pure, and we'd have been convinced we were doing the right thing by wrapping Will up in cotton wool and protecting him from anything of a sexual nature, but I can see now that we'd have been wrong, that the best thing we really could have done for him would have been to just treat him like we would have any other agent. What happened to him makes him... different, and I suspect there'll be times when something unexpected happens and we will have to rally around him, but, on a whole, he's just an agent and, as such, needs to be treated accordingly.

Which, to their credit, is what Henderson and his team did. They accepted him, and just let him work. I get the impression it may have possibly been a little harder for him at times than he's willing to let on, but, as he said, he made it through anyway and can now take confidence from knowing that he can, that he's as capable as any agent.

“I proved, even if it was only to myself, that I... that I've still got what it takes to be in the field,” Will responds. “I did everything that was asked of me, kept it together, and now... Now that I know that I can, that I... still have it in me to both successfully pull my weight and play my part, I would like... uh... that is... I want... to return to your team...” Trailing off, he sits up straighter and, as a determined expression settles over his face, turns to look me in the eyes. “These last three months proved to me that I don't... need... you,” he states plainly, picking my hand up in his and squeezing it. “I'd been beginning to think that I did, that I was... reliant... on you for everything, but I know now that I'm not, that I don't... need... you at all, but... I... What I also know is that I want you. I want you in my life because I'm happier when you're around and I... I want to be happy. It's still hard for me to feel... worthy... of being able to want anything, but... If I'm to be fully honest with myself here, you... You're what I want. I think I've got a nerve, that there's absolutely no reason you'd want me in return, but I... I do. I want to be here sitting on your sofa with you, and I want to be back on your team with Jane and Benji, and I... I want you to want me. I may not need you, but I want you...”

“And you've got me,” I murmur as, wanting to be able to better face Will, I stand up and, after moving the two cups of coffee safely out of the way, taking a seat on the coffee-table directly in front of him. “Of course you've got me,” I continue, resting my knees against his as I place my hands flat on his thighs. “You never stopped... having... me. Or, the team either, for that matter. I can see now that these three months have been good for you, and... that joining another team was the right thing to do, but I've... we've... missed you and, like you, I want things to go back to how they were. I want the team back together again, and I want... you...”

“Even though...”

“Uh!” I interrupt, keeping my gaze locked on Will's as he stares at me through wide, cautiously hopeful eyes. “Even though is just another way of saying of saying... but...”

“But...”

“See! I rest my case.”

“I... I feel as though I've got no right,” Will whispers, “that I... have nothing to offer you...”

“Wanting someone has nothing to do with what they can offer you,” I reply, rubbing the palms of my hands along Will's denim clad thighs. “Think about it. The Director can, well, he can... try... to, offer me a promotion, but it doesn't mean I want either it or him. Henderson offered you a place in his team, but you didn't want it. Will... You don't have to offer me anything, because, really, you already offer me enough...”

“But...”

“You offer me your friendship and your... trust,” I state, smiling at him as he looks at me doubtfully, “and, while, I couldn't ask for anything more than that, you still give or... offer... me more. Your skills, the effortless way you fit in to the team, the... way you make me feel...” Pausing, I take his hands in mine and, in a bid to lighten the moment, grin. “Your... cooking skills.”

“So it really is true then and the way to a man's heart... is... through his stomach,” Will mutters with a hesitant grin of his own as he entwines his fingers around mine. “Uh... All joking aside, Ethan, are you sure you're... okay... with this? Like I said before, you don't have to pander to me or...”

“Can it still be pandering if I want it too?”

“Uh...”

Shrugging, I lean forward and kiss his forehead. “I want you, William Brandt. I want your good days and your bad days, I want to be there for you, and, believe me when I say that I want you in my life in whatever way you're willing to give,” I declare adamantly as, blinking those beautiful eyes of his at me, he hangs off my every word. “It's not about sex, or what you can... offer... me, it's just about you being... you, and how much you mean to me, and I... I don't know what else I can say or do to get you to believe me. You mean the world to me, Will, and I want... this. I want... you.”

“I...” His face lighting up with obvious relief, Will absolutely beams with what I hope is delight and places a quick kiss on the tip of my nose. “I could, because it's what I'm prone to doing, argue with you some more or worry myself sick about whether you're just trying to be nice to me because you feel as though you have to, but... You know what? I'm not going to,” he replies, shuffling forward on the sofa and, after freeing his hands from mine, draping his arms over my shoulders. “Because everything you've said is what I was so desperately wanting to hear, I... I'm just going to... count my blessings... and accept it. If you truly want me, Ethan, and I... I believe, even if I still can't work out why, that you do, then... I'm yours. I'm... all yours.”

Hardly believing my own good fortune at how well this evening's turned out, I rest my forehead against Will's and, as I don't want to give his self-doubt a window of opportunity to once again slip in and darken his mood, seize on the first random, and hopefully promising enough thought to pop into my head. “You know... Seeing as we're finally on the same page here, I think we ought to celebrate, don't you?”

“Celebrate?” Will echoes, locking his hands together behind my neck and pulling me closer. “If it's with another shot of Jim Beam then... uh... forget it. I'd rather find some popcorn and give Benji's Star Trek movie another go before I drink that muck again.”

“Actually, I was thinking of something on a far... bigger... scale,” I retort cryptically as, copying Will's move, I drape my arms over his shoulders and interlock my fingers behind his neck. “Now that you're back on the team, you're in the same holding pattern as Jane and I are in terms of not really being able to do anything until Benji's cleared for duty.”

“Mmm... And?” he prompts, pulling back just far enough to give me a quizzical look. “I thought they'd just find stuff for us to do around HQ until..”

“They probably would, but I've got a better idea.”

“You... do?”

“I do.”

“Care to share it with me?”

“You agree that we've got cause to celebrate, yes?” I murmur, loving, well, just about everything about the moment. Will's proximity, the way he's starting to look impatient, the brightness of his eyes, just... the fact that he's here at all.

“I... Actually, yes, I do,” he replies, smiling. “I'm not even sure when it last was I felt like celebrating something, but, you're right, I really do feel like it now, so... Without even knowing just what it is you're thinking of here, let's... celebrate.”

“So... That would be a... yes?”

“Uh... Sure,” Will murmurs with an easy-going, unbothered shrug. “So long as it doesn't involve Jim Beam, count me in.”

“You'll come to London with me and hold my hand on the Eurostar to Brussels, then?” I reply, dropping my – fingers crossed that I'm not trying to move things along either too quickly or in a direction that Will doesn't want to go in – bombshell with an airy grin. “Think about it. We've talked about it before, we've got the time, and...”

“It's spontaneous, possibly even just that little bit insane, and...” Laughing, he shakes his head. “Yes! I'm in. Let's... go to Brussels.”

~*~*~*~


	21. Chapter 21

~*~*~*~

Stepping into the shower, I let the luxurious warmth of the water wash over me and just... marvel... at the current state of my life. Give or take twenty-four hours ago I was mourning the loss of a colleague and, Fowler's death at the time striking me as the final straw in my – woe is me – considerably crappy existence, preparing to drink myself in to a stupor. If things had gone to my original plan, I should, round about now, be slumped over my kitchen table feeling even sorrier for myself than when I first cracked open the bourbon and nursing one hell of a hangover. 

And yet, here I am having a shower in five-star hotel in Brussels while, out in the main room, Will gets dressed for dinner.

Brussels.

Will.

The stars aligning for an incredible piece of good fortune that I'm still wanting to pinch myself about.

Just...

Here we are.

Wanting that... breakthrough move... as much I did, Will not only accepted my off-the-cuff offer of going through with our – once upon a time, equally as off-the-cuff – 'date' of catching the Eurostar from London to Brussels, like, right now, but he was also the one who pushed for going straight to Dulles and, instead of pre-booking and working to a time-table, just lurking around the airport until a flight to the UK came up. It was just spontaneous, unlike Will, who, it just has to be said, has been known to go a little overboard in regards to his obsessive compulsive organisational skills, and completely and utterly fucking amazing. With our always packed and always ready to go kit bags, the ones we can grab and be out the door in mere seconds should an urgent mission come our way, as our only luggage, we left the house on a high that, speaking for myself at least here, I haven't even come down from yet.

Things going our way for a pleasant change, a flight to Heathrow came up within an hour of our arrival at Dulles and, as though it was a sign of things to come, everything's been going smoothly ever since. So smoothly, in fact, that not even the pouring rain in Brussels can put a – no pun intended – dampener on my mood. The train journey went well. Nearing the tunnel I started to a grow a little antsier than I ever expected to and, sensing it, Will just held my hand and upped the level of his – quite intentionally – inane chatter until the train resurfaced in France. He didn't make a big deal out of it, or even ask me how I was feeling, he just regaled me with tales of the train set he'd had as a child and how his father had spent more time playing with it than he had. This transitioned in to a conversation about childhood and our favourite toys and it was all just so gloriously... mundane... that, focussed on Will and the ebb and flow of what we were talking about, I didn't even notice that we were in the tunnel. We talked, and held hands under the table, and for a small pocket of time our lives were just... normal.

We weren't two battle-scarred by everything we've seen IMF agents on the run from grief or trying to keep reality at bay, and were just... two friends on their way to Brussels for a couple of days of rest and relaxation. It didn't matter that we had to be back in D.C. in less than seventy-two hours in order to be able to attend Fowler's memorial service, or even that we hadn't seen each other in three months and still hadn't quite gotten our heads around just where exactly it is we actually stand with each other, as... We were just two friends on a train together.

And now we're just... two friends... sharing a twin room in a hotel in Brussels.

That's all.

Okay. So... maybe... the sight of Will, all shower-fresh with his damp hair and flushed skin, and wearing one of the hotel's complimentary fluffy white bath robes, when he returned to the room from the bathroom... might... have gone straight to my cock. And... maybe, as I don't want to give him any reason to wonder why it is I'd be taking so long, it's taken just about all of my willpower to not jerk off to mental images of him here in the shower.

But...

I'm okay with that.

I am.

Just because Will's back in my life doesn't mean that things have moved on all that far from where we'd left them in Monaco. We know we care about each other, just as we know that, when the timing's right and Will feels up to it, things will one day progress to where we both want them to be. The timing though is in entirely in Will's hands. Even if it's just to get the monkey off his back, he has to be the one to want it. Just as he has to be the one to make the first move. For my part, although there's no denying my attraction to him and the fact that, absolutely, I do want him, he still... scares me in ways that I hope he never ever has to discover. 

What he went through, and the things that were done to him on a daily basis for a good part of his six months of captivity, they're aspects of his life that he'll... never truly recover from. They took both his sexuality and his... ease... with his own body and, though hour after hour of pain and degradation, they destroyed them both. I can hug and kiss Will, and he's always seemed perfectly content to use my shoulder as a pillow and sleep on me, but, not counting his bare legs under his robe a couple of minutes ago, I haven't seen so much as the skin on his arms since that ill-fated trip to the doctor's in Pigalle. He hides, even going so far as to always wear long sleeves when working out and just avoiding the pool like the plague, his body behind clothing and struggles to look strangers in the eye, and I hate it. I hate that he's been made to feel this way as much as I hate knowing that I can't do anything about it.

If I were to allow myself to fall prey to fanciful, delusional thoughts – the sort that would no doubt be prevalent in poorly written romance novels – I could probably convince myself that all he needs to cure him is a... good fucking. If he gave himself over to me I could show him how good sex can really be and, just like that, he'd be back to normal again and hot to trot.

Only... I couldn't. Even if a genie materialised out of the shower gel here and guaranteed that it'd work, that he'd be okay with all but being – solely with his best interests at heart, of course – forced into it, I still couldn't do it to him. I want him, and I do, even though this alone sometimes strikes as me as perhaps a little... wrong, find him desirable, but the thought of what he'll be going through in his head whenever the moment actually happens, it just terrifies me. It'll be his decision and, knowing how Will's mind works, he'll have thought it through in detail, but, it's just not going to be easy, that's all. For either of us. It's a hurdle that has to be jumped, and I suspect Will would be in agreement that sooner rather than later would be the way to go as he's probably been thinking about it as much as I have, yet...

Knowing what it's going to entail, I can wait.

I just can.

Tipping some of the gel directly into the palm of my hand, I work it into a lather and quickly wash myself before getting out of the shower and reaching for the towel. Having left the all important task of choosing which restaurant to have dinner in with Will, I hope he's managed to settle on one and that, given the rain, it's either one that's very near by or, so as to be assured of a table, one that takes reservations as, having got drenched just getting to the hotel, I don't really want to get stuck out in the rain again. Brussels not being a place I've ever spent much time in before, I wasn't able to give him any suggestions and, suddenly curious as to where he might have chosen, I swiftly dry myself before putting on a clean pair of boxers and grabbing the other bath robe. Pulling it on, I do up the tie loosely around my waist and, satisfied that I'm decent, open the door and walk out into the room. 

Expecting to find Will dressed and possibly with the iPad still in his hand, I'm nonplussed to find him, still wearing his robe and staring down at his feet, sitting on the foot of one of the beds and, hardly surprisingly, this immediately puts me on edge. He'd been talking happily about how Brussels was known for its cuisine and seemed fine when I went into the bathroom, so to see him like this now disturbs me as much as it is a cause for concern.

“Will?” I murmur, taking a seat on the second bed so as not to crowd him. “You okay? If you're tired or have a headache or whatever, we don't have to go out and can just order in room service.”

“While you were in the shower I went over to the window to have a look out,” Will replies apropos of, to my mind anyway, absolutely nothing, as he continues to keep his gaze fixed on the carpet, “and I saw a couple. A man and a woman, possibly in their mid-twenties, and... and they were kissing and laughing, and... so clearly in love, that... That it got me thinking about love... and relationships... and... expectations.”

“Will...” Shit. Now? He's going to bring up – the elephant in the room – that, now? I know I was thinking about it in the shower, but, still... Thinking and actually... doing... are two entirely different things. One's even quite... effortless, while the other... Hell. It's not that I don't understand the importance, or... won't... support Will in any way that he needs me to, but... At the risk of ostracising myself from men everywhere, I think I'd just rather go out for dinner.

“I know you'd never put any pressure on me, Ethan, and that you're prepared to wait for however long it takes for... me to get with the damn program,” Will murmurs, “but... What about me? The fear and the... weight... of it hanging over my head is getting to me. It... Oh God. It scares me. You have no idea how afraid I am of just... losing it... in front of you, but I... I can't go on like this. I'm like, I don't know, some sort of royally fucked-up recovering sex addict as... there are times when it's all that I can think about. I want it, but I can't have it. And the reason I can't have it is because I'm so terribly afraid of it, of... having a melt down, of being hurt, of not being able to go through with it, of... of failing you... and reducing you to a life of celibacy because I... I'm such a... delicate... nut-job!”

“Hey... Shhh... It's okay,” I reply even though I know that it's really not okay at all, that Will's suddenly reached the end of his tether and the best thing I can do for him now is just hang on – for dear life – and go along for the ride. “This... is about you, not me, and... Listen to me here, you're not failing me, you... could never fail me, and, regardless of how long it might take, I have no problem with waiting for you. I want you, of course I do, but waiting isn't going to kill me and... and I'm just happy, over-joyed, even, to have you back in my life. So... Come on, Will. Look at me. I understand what you're saying, I do, but... you don't have to do this, not for me”

“I... It just eats at me and... it's got to stop,” Will responds quietly as, lifting his head, he glances over at me with an unreadable expression on his face. “I know that you'll wait for me and that I've got a nerve given that I only landed back in your life yesterday, but I've been having these thoughts for ages now and... I can't go on like this. I... I want to be able to offer you everything, I know, despite what the panicked voices in my head are trying to tell me, that you won't hurt me, and...” Trailing off, he stands up and moves over to position himself both directly in my line of sight and by the wall. “I... I have to take the bull by the horns,” he adds, locking his very wide, anxious looking blue eyes on mine and, before I can say a thing, opening up his robe and dropping it to the floor.

Given that he wasn't wearing anything beneath his robe, this leaves him standing naked, and ever-so-slightly trembling, in front of me and... I'm quite literally so shocked by this that all I can do is stare. It's far from my best response, but as I'm fairly confident jumping to my feet and just trying to put the robe back on him wouldn't be the way to go, it...

It's all that I've got.

Will...

… Wants this.

That's all that I've got to remember. He's placed himself in this position of absolute openness and vulnerability because it's what he's decided he wants.

And, dear God, is he beautiful.

Toned and defined in all the right places, perfectly proportioned, and almost as smooth as he was in Paris, if it was anyone other than Will standing before me looking like that I'd be out of my boxers and robe and be all over him in a flash. I know that his back is scarred, and that he may not have always been this smooth naturally, but to my way of thinking anyway he really is nothing short of exquisite. Better, thanks to the weight he's put on and the work he's been doing in my home gym, than in Paris and, again, if it was anyone else I'd already have my hands all over him by now.

As it's Will though, I just don't know what it is I'm going to do with him. 

“So... There you have it,” Will whispers as, his gaze sliding to the floor, he gestures along the length of his body. “If you want it, it's all yours. Uh... Assuming that is you can ignore where it's been and... uh... all the mileage on it. I know I'm not sexy, but I... I can take it and... and my gag control is second to none, so...”

The tremor of self-loathing in Will's voice being as much of a wake-up call as what he actually said was, I get to my feet and, ignoring how he immediately backs against the wall in response, walk over to him. “That's... enough of that,” I state, picking up the robe and, after gently pulling him away from the wall, draping it around his shoulders. “Here. Put this back on and...”

“If you don't want me, just say it,” Will replies, giving me a wounded look as, with a sigh, he pulls the robe on and ties it up tight. “Just... To think they used to pay for this and now I can't even give it away. Maybe... Maybe I should just try my luck in a bar. Surely if I found some guy who was drunk enough I could convince him to have me. I... I'm good at begging, you know. Before I stopped talking I could beg like there was no tomorrow. Maybe...” Dropping suddenly to his knees, he clasps his hands behind his back and gazes up at me. “Please. I'm here and I'm clean and I can do anything. Whatever you want to do to me, I can take it, so... Please, Ethan. I'm begging you. If I don't disgust you, just... I'm yours for the taking.”

“I... Damn it, Will!” Following him down to the floor, I kneel in front of him and, as tears well in my eyes and I feel like shouting at the unfairness of all of this, just wrap my arms around him and hug him to me as though both our lives depended on it. “You're mine, okay,” I continue hoarsely as, slumping against me, Will slides his arms around my back and just... clings to me. “You're mine, not... to do with as I see fit, but because I love you and can't bear the thought of anyone else ever touching you. Now... Come on. It's okay. You don't disgust me, I... do... want you, and, because it means enough to you to work yourself up into a state over, I'm prepared to go along with this for you... But... While you can call the shots, it has to be a... work in progress... between the both of us. I'm not just going to... have my way... with you because you're putting yourself out there to be taken. This... This is something we have to work at equally. You've made the call, and it's a... big... call, I get that, but this is uncharted territory for me as well. You're... scared of being hurt or not being able to go through with it, and... I'm scared of inadvertently doing something to hurt you or... not even being able to go through with it myself. Just... Listen to me, Will. You mean so much to me that I'm as nervous as you are...”

“I doubt you could ever be as nervous as I am,” Will mumbles into my neck, “but, thank you for saying it. While in my mind I might have had you... reacting far more enthusiastically... to my non-negotiable offer, you're right. This... We have to do it together and I'm sorry for just... dumping it on you. It was selfish of me, and I'll understand if you just want to pretend that it never happened...”

“I want... whatever you want,” I reply, loosening my hold on Will so that I can rub his back. “If you want to get dressed and just go out to dinner as we'd originally planned, then... that's what I want too. If, however, you want to get to the end of this path you've started on, then... that's also what I want. You're in charge here, Will, and that's not something you can forget. No-one is holding a gun to your head or forcing you to do anything that you don't want to. And... For what it's worth, the same goes for me. I'm here because it's where I want to be.”

“Then...” Slowly pulling free of the embrace, Will shuffles a couple of inches back from me and places his hands on the tie holding his robe closed. “This. I want... this. That is, and I know this will probably be the least sexy thing you've ever heard, I want to get it over and done with. Whatever happens, I want to at least... try.”

'That's what I was afraid you were going to say', not striking me as the best response to give all things considered, I simply nod and watch as, with hands that I can't help but note are shaking, Will unties his robe and lets it fall open. Being far closer to him this time, I can see his heart beating against his chest and, knowing that I have to give myself over to this, just go with the first statement that pops in to my head.

“God, you're beautiful,” I murmur, shifting closer to him and, without touching him wafting my hands over his bare chest.

“No I'm not,” Will whispers as goosebumps break out across his skin and he closes his eyes. “I'm... not big enough... Too scrawny... Ugly...”

“Shhh... Don't say things like that.”

“That's what... they... used to tell me. Only good for one thing... Should consider myself lucky that they had a use for me at all...”

“Then they were not only stupid but apparently blind as well,” I reply, wiping the back of my hand across my eyes and the damn tears that keep welling in them before, with a silent sigh, placing them down on Will's still robe covered shoulders. “Come on, William, look at me,” I command softly. “I want you to open your eyes and see just who it is that's touching you.”

Nodding, he opens his eyes and hesitantly looks at me.

“Now... What do you see?”

“What do I... see?”

“Mmm... When you look at me, what do you see?”

“I see... you,” Will murmurs, frowning in confusion.

“And who am I?”

“You're... Ethan.”

“Uh-huh. And... who's Ethan to you?”

The light bulb finally illuminating in his head, a brief smile flits across his face and he gives another nod. “My friend,” he responds plainly. “He's my friend and the only person in the world I'd want to be putting myself through this with... He... Somehow, I don't quite know how, just has the knack of being able to get through to me whenever I'm one small step off simply losing it.”

“And... He honestly thinks that you're beautiful,” I murmur as, slowly pushing his robe off his shoulders, I ignore – because I know I have to – the slight hitch in his breathing. “Quite perfect, even,” I add, ghosting my hands once again along his torso. Only this time, instead of stopping at his waist, I continue downwards and brush the tips of my fingers across his cock. Just as I would have felt safe betting my life on, this has an incredibly adverse effect on Will, as, gasping, he jerks away from me and crashes back first into the wall.

“I... I'm sorry. Oh God... I didn't... I'm sorry. So sorry. It... It's okay,” he babbles breathlessly as, straightening up, he looks anywhere but at me. “Just... I'm sorry...”

Not half as sorry as I am, but, as that's another one of those thoughts best kept to myself, I simply hold my position and shrug. “You know something? I think it's perhaps time for a change in plans.”

“Like... Write me off as some sort of bad joke?” Will mutters. “Seriously. I wouldn't be able to blame you if...”

“And that's... this,” I state as though Will had never even spoken as I reach for the tie around my robe and start to loosen it. “I want you to show me that you're in charge here by... doing what you want to me.”

“I...” His attention caught by my... new slant... on proceedings, Will gives me a curious look and crawls closer. “What do you want me...”

“It's not about what I want, it's about what you... want, or are willing, to do,” I respond, smiling as I drop my arms to my sides. “You know what you said earlier about being... mine? Well, that makes me... yours...”

“I think I've got the better end of that deal,” Will murmurs as, looking more determined than enthused at the thought of what's to come, he reaches out his hands and fumbles over undoing my robe. Once it's open he glances fleetingly, as though he's afraid to look at it too closely, at my torso before looking down and frowning at the unexpected sight of my boxers. “Oh...”

“We'd been going to go out, remember?”

“Sorry... Of course.”

“Do you want me to...”

“No. I can do it.” 

Backing his words up with actions, Will, who still looks like he'd prefer to be just about anywhere other than here, tentatively pulls down my boxers and, again, because I think it's preferable to actually looking at my naked body, busies himself with getting them fully off me. This done, he returns to his kneeling position in front of me, places his hands behind his back, and promptly bows his head.

Knowing instinctively just what it is he's planning on doing, and just... why... it would be he's skipping the preamble and going straight to the main event, I grab him by the shoulders and pull him back up straight. “No,” I declare as calmly as I can manage as, shaking off my hands, Will literally... cringes... back from me. “I'm not saying that it's not a very tempting offer, but... you're more, far more, than just a mouth to me, Will, and... Your hands. I don't want to see them behind your back, I want them... on me. I want you to use your hands on me.”

… Because he would have constantly been restrained, it would have always been his mouth or... other parts of his body... that he would have had used by the perverted bastards who were just using him as a means to a climatic end, and, to make this stand apart, that's not what I want at all. I don't want him to just take my cock in his mouth because he thinks he has to, or because it's what he thinks I'm expecting of him. When we've put ourselves through this a few more times and I think he's ready, then, fine, bring it on. Just not now, though. He'd do it, but what would it take out of him? Would I just become the last in a... long line of cocks to him?

“I don't mind,” Will whispers, giving me the sort of wary look that makes me think he's still afraid that I'm going to want to punish him for having... done the wrong thing. “In fact, it... it's the one thing they all said I was good at...”

“And one of these days that's something I really do hope to find out for myself,” I reply, holding my hands out to him. “But... Not tonight. Tonight I want you to remember what it's like to be able to use your hands, to... be both free to do what you like, and... to be in charge.”

Placing his hands in mine, Will shifts closer and surprises me by planting a quick kiss on my cheek. “I don't know if I should be... impressed... at how well you know me, or... horrified... that you can clearly see straight through me,” he murmurs, draping one arm over my shoulder as, with only the slightest hesitation, he allows me to guide his other hand down my cock. “If... If this is what you truly want though, then I... I'll give it a go.”

“The other thing about using your hands is that it leaves your mouth free for this...” Leaning forward, I kiss Will full on the lips as, pulling my hand away, I let his drop on to my cock. “Maybe,” I continue, giving him another brief kiss as, frowning in concentration, he closes his hand experimentally around my still flaccid cock, “the real reason I'm so hot on the idea of you using your hands is because I just want to be able to kiss you.”

“Well...” Surprising me yet again by sliding his arm around my waist and, as his fingers continue their very tentative exploration of my cock and balls, pulling me forward so that our bare torsos are pressed tight together, Will gives me a genuinely happy looking smile and kisses the tip of my nose. “As that was the one thing they never wanted my mouth for, I wouldn't say no to... multi-tasking.”

“Multi-tasking, huh?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

Only too happy to oblige, I place my hands on Will's slim hips and, once he's relaxed from the shock of this, settle my lips on his and kiss him passionately. Having finally found something he's both comfortable with, and eager to participate in, Will returns the kiss without hesitation as his hand gets into the rhythm of slowly jerking me off. My cock responding to both the touch of his hand and the feel of his smooth chest rubbing against mine, I harden it what feels like next to no time at all and push up into his palm. As sex goes, while it would never find its way up on to a porn blog and could possibly even be described as just about the simplest encounter... ever, it's still nothing short of... spectacular. Not the hand job itself, as, let's face it, I could have done that to myself in the shower, but the fact that it's Will doing it. That, naked save for the bath robes that are hanging open and falling off our shoulders, we're touching, and kissing, and... I can feel him throughout every fibre of my body. The surprising softness of the palm of his hand, the smoothness of his chest, the way his cock occasionally makes it presence known by bumping against my thigh, his lips, moist and pliant under mine...

He's so damaged, and vulnerable, and... so unbelievably special... that I can hardly believe that he's even here with me, let alone that I'm pushing in to his hand like an over-excited and inexperienced teenager.

William Brandt.

How I managed to make it through this much of my life without him just escapes me.

It'd only be some sort of psycho-babble to say that he completes me, but what he does do, and of this I have no doubt, is make me a better man. With Will, I feel more... human, more alive. IMF come a very distant second to him, I'm more open and, to the world at large, more approachable when he's around, and I love him in a way that I've never experienced before.

I just do.

Wanting to come, not only to release the increasing pressure on my balls but to show Will what, without even really having to try, he's capable of, I switch off all coherent thought and just ride the moment until, breaking the kiss to release a triumphant cry, I climax into his hand. As orgasms go it's more... by-the-numbers than it is... seeing-stars-spectacular, but, at the same time, what it also happens to be is... enough. I get my release and Will, who I know deep down is still viewing all of this as simply a hurdle he has to get over, gets to see that he can still, by his own choice, that is, bring someone to climax by one of the most normal means available. No games, or toys, or underlying threat of pain or punishment, just a simple old – always does the job – hand job.

“I...” Wiping his hand clean on his robe as he leans back, Will looks at me and, to my relief, smiles. “If I'd known you were that easy to please I'd have done this ages ago,” he murmurs. “That is... I... I hope that it was...”

“It must just be the effect you have on me,” I reply, smiling as I talk over the top of him. “Seriously, Will... You'll get no complaints from me.”

“If only everyone was as easy to...” Stopping himself from continuing, he shrugs and gestures at me. “I'd like to... see you,” he whispers, giving me a shy, possibly almost slightly nervous look as though he still thinks there's a chance I'm going to flip out at any moment and just, I don't know, jump him or something like that. “Uh... All of you. I... I'd like to see you properly. If... Uh... That is, if you don't mind, of course. If you don't want...”

“Your wish is my command,” I state, once again droning out his hesitation with the sound of my own voice as, straightening up, I shrug out of the robe and kneel before him fully naked. “Or perhaps it should be more of a case of... Be careful what you wish for...”

His eyes widening either at the sight of my nudity or the speed at which I followed through with his request, Will looks both slowly and intently at my body. His expression giving nothing away, I can't even hazard a guess as to what he's thinking and after a few moments of this... searing... attention I begin to feel a little... awkward. Not uncomfortable, per se, more that I'm... on show and, while I'm far from body conscious and have never had any complaints with what I've got, it's just a bit too much. If he was looking at me with lust, then, fine. Alternatively, if his expression was one of disgust I could, without even any great degree of self-doubt, live with that too as, if nothing else, it would prove that he was thinking... something.

As it is though... Nothing.

He just looks at me...

… And, just as I'm about to say something, it finally dawns on me.

He's looking at me because he... can. He doesn't have to keep his eyes diverted at all times and, with no fear of the consequences, he can just look at who it is he's with with complete immunity. And, in a positively insignificant way, not that this is what he'd be wanting at all, I'm getting an inkling of what it must have felt like to him. Always on display and in the dark as to what they were thinking, or just what it was that was coming.

Confused. Defenceless.

“Beautiful,” Will whispers at long last as, realising that he's been staring, he flashes me an embarrassed smile. “Sorry for... uh... zoning out on you there. I was just getting a good look because...”

“You could,” I finish with both a smile and an unbothered shrug. “I'm not saying that there wasn't a moment there when I was beginning to wonder just what it was you were seeing, but...”

“What I was... seeing... was what I wanted to be seeing,” Will interrupts, blushing as he looks away and drops his gaze to the floor. “I know that I shouldn't have been staring, and I apologise if...”

“So long as it's me you're staring at, you're welcome to stare any old time that you want,” I declare, brushing off his concerns and, as it's becoming more and more obvious that I'm actually the one in charge here, deciding that the time has come to move things along again. “Now... How about your turn, yeah?”

“My turn?” Lifting his head, Will shoots me a look that, this time, is definitely one born of nervousness. “I... Of course... Sorry...” Nodding, he bites down on his bottom lip and draws himself up into a kneeling position before shrugging out of the robe and once again presenting himself naked to me. Although he's now half-erect, which is gratifying, he won't look me in the eye and it's clear that he's even more uncomfortable than he was before and that the success of having brought me to orgasm is already a thing of the past in his mind.

Sighing, I shift closer to him and, just as I did earlier, waft my hands over his bare shoulders. “This wasn't exactly what I meant,” I murmur as, not really knowing what I can do to reassure him, I give his cheek a gentle kiss.

“It... It's only fair,” Will whispers, turning his head away and gazing, I suspect without really seeing anything, over at the wall. “I asked you to...”

“What I really meant and perhaps even should have said was,” I reply, placing my hands on his shoulders as I give his cheek another kiss, “my turn...”

“Your... turn?”

“Mmm... My turn. You were so... kind... as to get me off, that... it's now my turn to return the favour.”

“You don't have to,” Will whispers as, shaking his head, goosebumps once again break out over his skin and he leans back from me. “I... I'm fine. It... It'll just go away.”

“I know I don't have to, but... I want to. I want to remind you what it... should... be like,” I reply as I lift my hand away from his shoulder and, before I can talk myself out of it, reach for his cock. My fingers have barely brushed across it when, in a dramatic replay of earlier, Will gasps and jerks instinctively back.

“I...” Breathing deeply, he gives me a miserable look and, in a move that I've already come to hate and could happily live the rest of my life out without having to see it again, clasps his hands behind his back. “S-sorry. If... If that's what you... want, then I... I won't move again,” he stammers, spreading his legs slightly and, as his eyes glaze over and his breathing becomes shallow, just... presenting... himself to me. “I... Please. Do what you want. I promise that I won't move again...”

“I think what you're really trying to say is that you'll... force... yourself to stay still,” I mutter as, taking a deep breath, I tell myself that I have to be patient, that, as none of this is actually Will's fault, he doesn't want to be behaving this way anymore than I want to be having to witness it. All sex has meant to him is... being grabbed, and... forced, and... kept in pain. And, given the sadistic nature of the bastards who thought this was all perfectly acceptable, his cock would have been one of the main places to bear the brunt of it. His cock which, like a man with a one-track mind, I keep pawing at, because, to me, it's just a completely normal, desirable thing to do.

Normal and desirable, that is, to anyone other than Will.

“If it's what you want,” he mumbles as, looking increasingly resigned, he tilts his back and spreads his legs even further apart. “I started this, so... Just... Do what you want. I... I can take it...”

He might be able to take it, but I seriously can't.

“Damn it, Will,” I sigh as I close the distance that separates us and, wrapping my arms around him, just hug him tightly. “It's not about... taking it. It's about... pleasure. Your pleasure and... what I can do to give it to you. Now...” Pausing I kiss the top of his head and, as, with a sigh of his own, he hugs me back, begin to both slowly and all the time keeping him with me, get up from the floor. “As... repeating what you did to me is obviously out,” I continue, thinking fast as, placing my arm around his waist, I guide him slowly over to the bed, “how about I...” Sitting him down on the edge of the mattress, I lean forward, kiss his forehead, and murmur, “How about I just use my mouth, mmm? How does that sound? No hands, just... mouth...”

The thought obviously appealing to him, Will releases a deep, shuddery breath and looks up at me with what I think may well be amazement. Someone wanting to... give... instead of take? If his expression is anything to go by, it's like the mere... idea... of it is completely foreign to him. “You don't have...”

“Actually, you have... no idea.. how much I want to,” I interrupt, smiling as I gesture towards the head of the bed. “Assuming, of course, that you're okay with the idea, how about lying down, yeah, and just... leaving me to it...”

“Are you sure? I don't expect you to...”

“And generally, when an offer like this is on the table, I don't expect... opposition,” I murmur lightly, gesturing again along the bed. “If you're okay with it though, and don't think you have to be just to shut me up, just tell me how you'd like it and I'll do my best to oblige.”

“I...” His mind suddenly made up, Will nods and shuffles backwards along the mattress before settling himself on his back. “No one's done this for... I... I don't even know how long...”

“Then I'd better concentrate on putting on my best performance,” I grin as, banishing my nerves to the furthermost corner of my mind, I kneel on the foot of the bed and lightly touch my hands on Will's ankles. “Unless you'd like to guide me to a... preferred... position, spread your legs a little and let me in between them.”

“It's not my place...”

“Actually, it is. You're the one who's still in charge here, Will. I can come up with what I think are good ideas, and I can offer them up to you in the hope that you'll like them, but if you don't, or even just... doubt... them, then... All you have to do is speak up.”

“You must think I'm...”

“In need of being treated with respect and looked after? Then, fine, the answer is yes. I don't just want to... get you through this, Will, I want you to enjoy at least... some of it. So...” I tap his ankles again. “Spread 'em, and let me at it.”

Fearing, even before Will's hands clench reflexively in the bed cover and he quickly – make that... too... quickly – spreads his legs, that I've gone too far and suddenly come over as all bossy and dictatorial, I smile weakly and just... push on. “Now... Just let me make you feel good. I'm not going to... grab... you, or hurt you in any way, and... nor am I going to touch you anywhere other than... there, but... If you don't like it or want me to stop at any point, then... speak up. You don't need my permission for... anything. Do you hear me, Will? You're in control of... everything.”

“You know,” Will murmurs, lifting his head off the pillow to give me a wry, yet – thank God for small mercies – relaxed look, “while this is... absolutely massive... to me, to you it must just be... one hell of a non-event. Sex as... a chore, or... something you have to get out of the way before dinner. I... That probably sounds wrong, and you've got to believe that I'm not complaining, but...”

“Actually...” Making myself comfortable in a kneeling position between Will's legs, I bow my head and, with a fleeting lick along the length of his still semi-erect at best cock, play the double entendre card for all that it's worth. “This is... absolutely massive... to me, too.”

Laughing, which is an even better result than I ever could have hoped for, Will reaches out his hand and trails his fingers through my hair. “If... that's... absolutely massive, you need your eyes checked.”

“Oh! You thought I was talking about your...” Glancing up, I wink at him and, as he laughs again, repeat my trick of running my tongue along his cock. “Now... Would you like me to do this, or would you rather just discuss why this actually means as much to me as it does you?”

“While thirty minutes ago I probably would have gone with the discussion, now... Oh... Oh God!”

My lips closing around the tip of his cock causing him to lose his train of thought, Will gasps and, lifting his knees off the mattress, spreads his legs even further apart as, clearly wanting to anchor himself, he once again grabs hold of the bed cover.

Pleased, if not all out delighted with both his reaction and that, thankfully, I appear to have made the right decision in offering him the one thing he... hasn't... had, I rest my hands flat on my thighs and just throw myself whole-heartedly in to the task at... mouth. It's a little, as I don't want to say... difficult, I'll just go with... different... instead, in that I know that I can't, at any point, use my hands. While normally I'd use my fingers to create a ring around the base of his cock or use my palms to massage his balls, in this instance, as I all but promised him that I wouldn't touch him with anything other than my mouth, I know that I can't, that, hands, essentially, are completely off limits. It being far from the end of the world though, I just know that I have to get creative and, as Will's breathing becomes laboured and his hold on the bed cover becomes even tighter, that's simply what I do.

It's, even if I do say so myself, just about the blow job to beat all blow jobs. I nuzzle, lick, kiss, and take as much of his cock as I can into my mouth. Knowing that I can't touch Will, that I can't run my hands along his smooth, sweat-slicked torso, is almost like a form of sweet torture, but... Knowing that he's finally with me, that his attention is caught solely by the pleasure coursing through his body and nothing else, it's just worth it.

In fact, it's more than worth it.

He's relaxed, turned on, and just... unashamedly giving himself over to both me and pleasure.

And, as fucking gorgeous sights go, he's truly in a league of his own.

It having been far, far too many months between... freely given... orgasms for him to hold out for any longer than a couple of minutes, it doesn't take long for Will to reach completion and when he climaxes he does so with more of a whimper than a cry of either satisfaction or release. To me, it's still, as it goes without saying that for all the inroads we've made this evening we're still only on the first rung of what is a very high ladder, a beautiful sound though and, with one final kiss to the tip of his softening cock, I climb over his leg and stretch out alongside him. “Hey there...”

“Hey there, yourself,” Will murmurs as, immediately rolling over to face me, he smiles dazedly and, with a very welcome display of growing confidence, strokes his fingers along my chest.

“So far, so good, yeah?” I query, making no attempt to hide the hopeful tone of my voice as I shift closer to him and drape my arm around his waist. “Just... Do you feel better than you did earlier?”

“So far, so good,” Will confirms, pressing himself against me and sighing with contentment. “And... Yes. I feel better than I ever expected to. You... You took something that I've been dreading and made it... work... Like I said earlier, I don't know... how... you're able to know me as well as you do, but... You just make everything better, and... and it's one of the many reasons that I love you...”

“Maybe it's because I love you too, and just want what's best for you, that I'm able to know you so well,” I offer quietly, resting my forehead briefly against Will's before starting to feel a slight chill on my back from the air-conditioning and, not wanting him to get cold, sitting up. “Now... If I haven't completely blown your mind with my... prowess... here, what do you say about both getting dressed and returning to our original plan of going out to dinner. I mean, you could even say that we now have something more worth celebrating than my successful return to the world of Eurostar train travel...”

“Or...” Sitting up, Will smiles and gives me a hopeful look. “Or we could just stay here, put our pyjamas on, and order in room-service,” he states, shifting into a kneeling position and both draping his arms over my shoulders and kissing my cheek. “We can always sample the best dining Brussels has to offer tomorrow...”

It's not even eight in the evening. We're on an all-too-brief holiday and free from the stresses of IMF, and he wants us to spend the night in our – pyjamas – hotel suite...

Grinning, I hug Will to me and, with both a laugh and complete honesty, reply, “You know... I actually can't think of anything I'd like more.”

~*~*~*~


	22. Chapter 22

~*~*~*~

Waking just as mains power switches back on and the hotel's noisy generator falls silent, I open my eyes and, seeing as I don't have many options open to me as Will's currently using the majority of my body as his very own human-sized pillow, just blink up at the ceiling. Dull light filtering in through the cracks in the drapes tells me that it's morning, just as the sounds of both howling winds and torrential rain crashing against the glass tells me that the typhoon that hit Hong Kong last night is still both raging and showing no signs of slowing down. A bit of good luck going our way for a change, we were fortunate enough to finish our mission before the typhoon struck and now, as the hotel has allegedly been built to withstand anything Mother Nature can throw at it, our only concern in regards to Hong Kong's temperamental weather is if it will lift in time for us to catch our flight to Moscow this afternoon. Having had enough of the heat and humidity for the time being – and, given that I've felt damp ever since I stepped off the plane a week ago, how I haven't started to grow mould in places that, really, I don't even want think think about, just escapes me – I'm hoping that the weather does break long enough to allow us to get the hell out of here, but, if we do end up getting stuck here, then...

I'll survive.

Let's face it, I've been in far worse situations, and what's a little sweat between friends, anyway.

Take right now, for example. I feel as though I'm in danger of either melting or proving once and for all that spontaneous combustion really... is... possible. The hotel's generator only being able to cope with the essentials, the air conditioning has been off for hours and now, despite it having come back on, it's struggling to bring the temperature down from... tropical to... bearable. I'm lying, flat on my back on the mattress and, although I'm wearing boxers and a tank top that I can feel clinging to my uncomfortably sweaty skin, I also have an equally as clingy sheet draped over me and, just on the off chance all of this wasn't making me hot enough already, then there's Will. Will, who's wearing his usual pyjama pants and, in a concession to the heat, a t-shirt instead of his normal long sleeved pyjama top, and who, just as he always does, is draped around me and sleeping soundly. How exactly he's managing to sleep, especially seeing as I've spent half the night either listening to the typhoon's fury or just lying here mentally maligning the awful heat, is beyond me, it really is, but, asleep he most definitely is. Comfortable with his position, apparently – and, again, I genuinely have no idea how this can be the case – not feeling the heat at all, and just dead to the world.

The room being hot enough, and stuffy enough as it is, the last thing I really need is a warm body sprawled all over me and just making me even hotter, but...

I'm okay with it.

I may not be as comfortable as Will obviously is, and, fine, I'm a little surprised that he hasn't just slipped off me given how much I seem to be sweating, but I could no more push him off me or wake him up than I could flap my arms and fly. He's only adding to my discomfort, yet I don't mind.

I don't actually mind at all.

If this is how Will wants to sleep then, hey, that's fine by me. I know where he is, he's comfortable, and... we're together. And that, really, is all that counts. Any minor discomfort like this pales into insignificance compared to the bigger picture of just how much he means to me and it's because of this that I don't have the heart to move him. He wouldn't care, in fact I'm not even sure it would cause him to wake up, but I just can't do it. He's making me hot, very hot, even, but, as I wouldn't want him to be anywhere else, I'm okay with it. 

He's here, and he's mine, and, heat aside, I can't recall when I last felt this content with my life.

I have the best team around me that I've ever worked with, not being on my own means I no longer have the time on my hands to either feed my paranoia or nitpick IMF over every single thing they've ever done – usually unintentionally, it just has to be said – to annoy me, and, by far most importantly of all, I have Will. Like the mythical phoenix, he's come back from the dead, risen – spectacularly – from the ashes of both his former life and what he went through, and I honestly wouldn't want to imagine life without him. He keeps me grounded in ways I doubt he'd even suspect and, regardless of how foul a mood I might be in, just seeing him is usually enough to either calm me down or cheer me up. When I look at Will I don't just see him as a brilliant agent or even as an incredibly strong willed survivor as he's both of these things and much, much more. Of course he is. What I really see when I look at him though is simply the man that I both love and am incredibly lucky to have in my life. He's my best friend, colleague, and lover all wrapped up in one tightly wound and gorgeous package.

I'm not sure if he even knows this – although knowing Will and how his mind operates, he probably does and just doesn't want to mention it – but we're only a couple of days off a full year having passed since I made the chance discovery of him in Paris.

Twelve months.

Twelve whole months have passed since he crash landed into my life, and... not a day goes by that I don't still marvel at our shared good fortune. He got his life back, and, in a way, so did I. 

Our relationship mightn't be normal, but then again – and this is without getting in to a debate over what exactly 'normal' is anyway – neither are we. We're IMF agents who have either seen it, or done it all. To the moral majority, the fact that we're two men would be enough of a cause for – an attack of the vapours – concern all on its own. We met under extreme circumstances and there's no denying that this continues to colour our relationship. Will's going to carry both the physical and the emotional scars of what he went through with him forever. Just as I'm going to forever know the reasons behind everything – pyjamas, random, awkward moments during sex, the nightmares when he's unwell or exhausted – and that, to my constant dismay, there's not really a thing I can do about it. We know each so well, and have no secrets from each other, that you could probably mount a successful argument along the lines of us not only being too close but that, really, no one else ever stood a chance. We worked both hard and together to reach the point we're at now and, while a psychiatrist might be able to pick what we've made for ourselves to pieces, it just works. We're happy with each other and we're happy with what we've got. 

Will's never going to be Mr 'Hot 'n' Up For It' when it comes to sex. This, however, is far more a simple statement of fact than it is a complaint. I've learned, in the three months that have passed since Brussels, what's acceptable to him and what isn't, and I'm more than fine with it. My own preferences never having exactly been all that 'out there' in the first place, I can live perfectly happily with Will's unspoken boundaries. I know that, so long as I remain within said boundaries, his body is mine to touch to my heart's content. Unlike that first time in Brussels, I can now run my hands along the smooth skin of his chest and Will, instead of always looking as though he's still struggling to ward off the fear that things could suddenly take a change for the worse, just comes alive under my touch. I can touch, stroke, and caress him, and I can use my mouth, and as of last week I know I can entice him into the shower with me, and, as Will seems fine with repaying all of these actions in kind, it's enough. Given that I'd rather have him than a thousand anonymous and... creative... orgasms, it's actually more than enough. 

I know, not that I'm going to, mind you, that if, right now, I were to slide my hand into his pyjama pants and cup it around his cock and balls, he'd be okay with it. Sure, his entire body would stiffen at the unexpected, not to mention invasive, touch, but once he'd opened his eyes and blinked me into focus, he'd smile, most likely make some sort of small, contented whimpering sound, and just press into my palm by way of encouragement. It might only be a small thing, and to many it probably wouldn't even begin to come close to make up for the fact that, unlike most established, trusting relationships, I can't just roll him over and, with consent, of course, fuck him, but to me it's still enough. And to Will, it's not only enough but it's also still something of a big deal. He's fine with it, welcomes it, has even initiated it himself on a number of occasions, and I know, once his head is in the right place, that he always enjoys it, but, even with all of this, it's still a big ask of him. To be naked and vulnerable, even when it's only in front of someone he trusts, takes both a lot of effort and a lot out of him and, as much as I might hate it and long for it not to be the case at all, I suspect it's going to remain this way for some time to come.

It's just one of those things though. Something that no-one really has any control over and which, ultimately, doesn't detract from all the other advances he's made at all. I don't even think he's bothered by it anymore as he knows, and is confident of, where we stand with each other and that I'm happy to just have him any way that I can get him. And that, really, is the most important thing. Will has made his peace with how he is now and, any additional improvements he feels need to be made, he'll turn his attention to in his own time. For now though he's happy enough with how things are and this is obvious both in the way he carries himself in public and how he's confident enough with his standing in the team to not care what Benji and Jane think about us always sharing a room.

To us, he's just Will.

And all three of us know that we're lucky to have him.

The sound of raised voices coming from the suite's main room managing to make themselves heard over the still raging elements outside, I focus my attention on just whatever it is Jane and Benji are bickering over... this time... and, as it starts to become clear to me, have to throw everything I've got in to not laughing.

They're arguing about breakfast? Seriously? Just... Why? As IMF are picking up the tab, for all I care they could order two of everything off the room service menu and be done with it. Hell. I wouldn't even care if, upon it arriving, they took one look at it, ate a piece of toast each, and left the rest. It's... breakfast. That's all. Just breakfast, and certainly not worth getting narky at each other about.

“Do I... even want to know?” Will queries softly as, lifting his head off my chest, he glances in the direction of the door for a second or two before yawning and settling back down again.

“Breakfast,” I mutter. “I'm getting the impression World War Three is going to break out over a disagreement over breakfast.”

“Oh.” Yawning again, Will looks up at me and smiles sleepily. “I know I'm only repeating myself here, but... Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not, but as I didn't really want to know either I think it's only fair that I share it with you too,” I reply, grinning as I lean forward and kiss his cheek. “So... It's like this. Jane wants pancakes for breakfast but, as Benji's still going on about that stupid healthy eating article he read on the plane, he's trying to convince her that what she really wants is the muesli with an added sprinkling of chia seeds and, Jane, oddly enough, doesn't want to have a bar of it and is now reduced to having to tell him just what it is she's going to do with both the muesli and the seeds if he dares to order it.”

“Something unpleasant too, I take it,” he murmurs as, clearly not bothered by the heat – or my sticky, sweaty body – at all, he settles himself more comfortably across me and closes his eyes. “Oh well. So long as they're entertained. Uh... Not wanting to be called on to take sides, we don't have to get up, do we?”

“Assuming they re-open the airport in time, it's still only morning and, as we don't have to be there for hours, no, we don't have to get up,” I respond as, mentally crossing my fingers that the air conditioning is going to save me from melting, I hug Will back and plant another kiss on his forehead. “So... You can go back to sleep if you want to and I'll wake you when it's time for us to get moving.”

“Mmm... Damn!” His eyes flying open, Will sighs and abruptly sits up. “Jane having planted the idea in my head, I want pancakes now too,” he mutters, scowling at the door. “But... I also want to sleep in. I... I know, I know. First world problems and all of that, but...”

“As this is a six star hotel, I'm sure they'd be only too happy to serve you pancakes at any time of the day,” I reply, shifting into a sitting position and, despite feeling instantly cooler without having him draped all over me, immediately settling my arm around his shoulders. “So... Cheer up. The way I see it is you can have your sleep in... and... your pancakes.”

“I like the way you think,” Will responds, smiling as, with only the slightest wrinkling of his nose as he catches a sniff of me, he relaxes into my embrace. “In fact... Truth be told, I like all of you, period.”

“Just... like?” I tease, affecting a miffed expression. “I offer you a world complete with both sleep ins and pancakes, and you merely... like... me?”

“Fine, fine,” Will retorts as, turning serious, he looks me in the eye and curls his hand around my thigh. “Love. I love you, Ethan Hunt, not just because you let me sleep against you and promise me pancakes, but because you're just... you... and I know that life wouldn't be half as worth living if I didn't have you there by my side. I... I love you, not because you saved me, but because you're still here for me and you brighten every single day that I get to spend with you. Is... Is that better?”

Nodding, I pull Will closer. “Yes... But only because it's the same way that I happen to feel about you,” I murmur with a soft smile. “You're... everything... to me, Will, and I love you in a way that I never even thought possible,” I continue, tilting my cheek towards him and, just as I'd hoped I would be, being rewarded with both a smile in return and a kiss. “Now... A sleep in, followed by pancakes, yes?”

“Pancakes... without chia seeds,” Will murmurs, yawning as he slides down the mattress before, once I'm stretched out next to him, resettling himself around me. “Then... onwards and upwards to just whatever it is we're meant to be doing at the Kremlin.”

“Breaking in to the Kremlin? Pah. It's all in a day's work,” I reply, hugging Will to me as, the obviously life changing decision of what to have for breakfast remaining unanswered, Jane and Benji continue to bicker on the other side of the door. “Besides, there's nothing this team can't do when we set our minds to it.”

This team.

My... team.

William Brandt, the man who means the world to me and who I credit with making me who I am today, along with Jane Carter and Benji Dunn, two of the best agents I've ever had the good fortune to work with and who, even more importantly, are two of my closest friends.

I...

I don't know how we ended up together, but I'm glad that we did.

~ end ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And...
> 
> ... That's it.
> 
> The. End.
> 
> (For now, at least. Maybe...)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's left comments or kudos. Thank you, too, to everyone who's just been reading the chapters as I've posted them. I truly hope you enjoyed it.


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